


It Had to Be You

by esteri_ivy



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gossip Girl Fusion, CW: References to Eating Disorders, Dan Humphrey is Not Gossip Girl, Dany Is A Brunette (Because Blair Is), Denial of Feelings, F/M, Falling In Love, Gossip Girl References, Happy Ending, Jon & Dany are Dan & Blair, Jonerys Remix 2020, Minor Daario Naharis/Daenerys Targaryen, Minor Jon Snow/Margaery Tyrell, Sansa is Jon's Only Sibling, Self-Acceptance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:47:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23602573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteri_ivy/pseuds/esteri_ivy
Summary: "We still aren’t friends," she said. “Of course we aren’t,” he agreed. They kept meeting up anyway. // Jonerys Remix Challenge: Daenerys and Jon reimagined as Blair and Dan from "Gossip Girl."
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 85
Kudos: 431
Collections: Jonerys Remix 2020





	It Had to Be You

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all — so this is a remix fic based on the television series ‘Gossip Girl.’ I’ve written two separate author’s notes, and I’d like to request that you identify which one applies to you and take a look before you read. CHECK THE TAGS for info you should know; and please, for the love of God, know that there was no way to write a GG remix without secondary relationships lol. I hate them too, but it just wouldn't work. Thanks! :D
> 
> IF YOU HAVE WATCHED GOSSIP GIRL:  
> In the interest of being able to write a fic that was less than 200,000 words, I had to cut a *significant* amount of material from the show. I also replaced several large plot points with substitutes. If you don’t read it here, then for the purposes of this fic, it isn’t canon. So the Nate relationship? No. Prince Louis? Non. The identity of GG? Absolutely not. Finally, this fic is unambiguously ‘Dair,’ and it is not particularly ‘Chair’-friendly. You have been warned!
> 
> IF YOU HAVE NEVER WATCHED GOSSIP GIRL:  
> While many of the show’s characters are complex, there are potentially none more-so than Blair, who Daenerys is meant to represent. This story is written entirely from her perspective, and she is not what I would consider a reliable narrator. If you’re unfamiliar with the character and find yourself raising an eyebrow... well, she's complicated. Give her a chance.

** **

* * *

** "CAST" **

Blair Waldorf \- Daenerys Targaryen

Dan Humphrey \- Jon Stark

Serena van der Woodsen \- Margaery Tyrell

Eric van der Woodsen \- Loras Tyrell

Jenny Humphrey \- Sansa Stark

Vanessa Abrams \- Ygritte Wilde

Chuck Bass \- Daario Naharis

Cece Rhodes \- Olenna Tyrell

Georgina Sparks \- Myranda Rutherfurd 

* * *

_Hey, Upper East Siders._

It was that phrase — always that same phrase. If you had anything to hide, there was no clearer harbinger of doom than a cell phone chime. No one turned to Page Six or the New York Daily News for their scandals anymore; the thought of it was almost laughable.

These days, whenever the money class of Upper Manhattan was rocked by the airing of some paradigm-shifting dirty linen, the source was always the same: the ever-anonymous Gossip Girl.

Not that Daenerys Targaryen minded — it was always better to be talked about than to be anonymous, and there was no one higher on Gossip Girl’s radar than her. (Equal to her? Maybe. But not higher.)  That's why she was surprised to see that the day’s scandal wasn’t about a Targaryen or a Tyrell… not even a Martell. 

Inexplicably, the latest Gossip Girl blast was about Sansa Stark, a Brooklyn-bred freshman at Constance Billard who had unwittingly gotten herself mixed up with one of the worst people on the entire island of Manhattan.

And truly, that was saying something.

Myranda Rutherfurd was the worst sort of monster: ruthless, manipulative, shameless and creative. To add insult to injury, she had endless resources. Her family was _very_ old money — owned-the-winner-of-the-first-Westminster-Dog-Show money.

Myranda had been the bane of Daenerys’s existence for the six months that she had managed to sink her tacky, manicured claws into Margaery Tyrell. Her best friend — who had admittedly always been a bit of a wild child — was truly at her worst whenever the Rutherfurd heiress was involved. Just before Daenerys’s world came crashing down and Margaery left Manhattan, they’d finally sat down for what they’d ended up deeming a Myrandavention. 

To say the least, the bitch hadn’t taken it well.

Upon reading the blast, Daenerys had imagined all sorts of explanations for how Sansa could have provoked her ire, each more outlandish than the one before.

All told, she was almost disappointed when she learned what really happened. Myranda’s almost stunning predisposition for evil seemed better suited to blood feuds than boy problems. But that’s what it ultimately boiled down to: Her longtime on-and-off boyfriend had dragged an unwitting Sansa into some romantic game.

Honestly, if not for the fact that the girl was a reasonably promising minion, Daenerys probably wouldn’t have bothered getting involved at all. But Sansa _did_ have potential, and Myranda Rutherfurd was long overdue for some old-fashioned frontier justice.

She had never quite been able to prove that the girl had been the one who handed Gossip Girl _that_ _photo,_ but in the year since Daenerys's life had fallen apart, no more likely culprit had emerged. And each (rare) time that they ran into one another at society events, the girl’s comments had been just a little too pointed.

Myranda had the opportunity; she had the motive. Now Daenerys would have her revenge. 

For all the girl's brains and bullishness, she wasn’t the hardest to fool. Dangle a big enough carrot, and you could sway even the canniest horse — or, in this case, equestrienne.  A scheme like this was simple fair. She didn’t need any help coming up with a plan of attack; she only needed help implementing it. 

And that became the true landmark of the entire scandal, because ultimately, mustering the troops to protect Sansa Stark was the first time Daenerys was forced to pay attention to her older brother Jon.

Even then — it wasn’t so much about _him._ On the whole, Jon Stark was as irrelevant as he’d always been: a St. Jude scholarship senior whose crowning achievement to date was that he had saved a tremendously drunken Margaery from being hit by a car last Thanksgiving. 

For as long as she could remember, Jon Stark had trailed after her best friend. He flushed whenever she passed. When they arrived back at school after Thanksgiving break, it was plain that he’d hoped he could strike up communication between them. But Margaery had been so blackout drunk that she hadn’t even recognized him. By the end of the day, his face had more closely resembled a wounded puppy’s than a human’s.

The whole thing was really a bit sad; but as things were, Daenerys just found it uninteresting. _Everyone_ loved Margaery; she was like an entire sun, gold and bright and warm. There was nothing intriguing or special about being the millionth man to fall for her.

That was why she was so surprised to learn that Jon Stark was actually rather intriguing. He was smart and surprisingly good at scheming; Daenerys could respect those qualities in a man.

Even one with fashion sense as terrible as his.

“Why are you doing this?” had been the first words out of his mouth when she approached him.

(Admittedly, she was using the word ‘approached’ loosely. It was really more of an ambush two blocks from Constance and St. Jude, during which she’d dragged him into an alleyway after triple-checking that no one else from school was within eyesight.  But who was counting, really?)

Jon had asked her a fair question. She knew that. But fair or not, Daenerys had no plans to answer him.

“Look, do you want payback for what she did to Sansa or not?” she asked, brushing by it.

He looked at her for a moment, considering. Finally, he nodded.

“Yes. I do.”

After that, it was quick sailing. A meet-cute between Jon and Myranda, designed to make the girl think a metaphorical gold mine had fallen into her lap. 

_(“I’m Violet,” she said as she shook his hand. “Jon,” he smiled.)_

Daenerys carrying out a vicious, verbal takedown of Sansa on the Met steps, in full view of their classmates. It made its way to Gossip Girl in minutes. 

_(“You should make a comment about my clothes looking like they’re from the clearance rack,” Sansa had texted. “Maybe I’ll say redheads are out of season,” she’d replied.)_

And then, the coup de grâce: evidence of their daughter’s activities — and proclivities — hand-delivered to Mr. and Mrs. Rutherfurd.

Jon had been the one to suggest luring her to the park. He’d lied on the phone so easily, so swiftly, that Daenerys was startled.

“Stark, you are a born liar,” she grinned.

He shook his head, snorting. “Of course you would consider that a compliment,” he replied.

Less than an hour later, he had delivered her to Daenerys in Central Park, practically gift-wrapped.  The girl's eyes were wide as she protested. And then her parents joined the fun.  Myranda took their proffered brochure stiffly.

“What is this?” she asked, and for the first time, her voice was nervous.

“A reform school — where you’re going. Your friend was kind enough to do some research.”

Myranda’s face was bone-white.

“Haven’t you heard?” Daenerys asked brightly. “I’m the crazy bitch around here.”

* * *

Margaery was back.

She had fled Manhattan for some wretched New England boarding school a year ago, but now she was back. 

Daenerys desperately wanted to get over it, wanted to overlook the absence, the longing, the betrayal. She wanted to throw her arms around her best friend, laugh and cry and delight in her return. But it was a difficult thing to do. They’d been friends since they were in kindergarten, instant friends.

Inseparable.

Until Margaery separated herself.

The loss of her closest friend, just after _that photo_ had gone live on Gossip Girl… well, Rhaella Targaryen had responded as she was wont to do. She had checked her daughter into a ‘wellness’ retreat — the type you aren’t allowed to leave for 30 days.

_"Daenerys is off on a spa trip in the mountains — dreadful phone service, don’t you know?"_

A thin veneer if she’d ever heard one, but the other society women weren’t inclined to examine it too closely. If they did, who knew what would happen to them the next time they needed to lie about an absence?

But now her best friend was back, and Daenerys wasn’t alone anymore. Not like she had been: consumed by a desperate, wandering sadness. It had been like losing a part of her.

“Can you forgive me, D?” Margaery asked, reaching for her hand across the table. Her friend’s blonde curls still shimmered, even underneath the restaurant’s cheap fluorescent lights.

Daenerys grabbed her cappuccino instead, lifting it to her pursed lips.

“I’ll think about it,” she said.

_But of course I will._

* * *

It hadn’t taken long for things to settle back to her old normal.

Though it unquestionably had been the hardest year of her life, it seemed the only lasting difference between before and after Margaery's departure was Daenerys's relationship with Daario.

She had drowned her sorrows in the back of his limousine two weeks after _that photo_ went up. Despite all odds, they were still an item.

And Daenerys loved him — she did. Who else could understand her half as well as he did? And who, understanding her, could love her half as much?

They weren’t always happy with one another, but they were magnetic. Enough so that she could compare it to the great loves in her favorite films and novels. It was a persistent love. A _trying_ love.

And if it seemed easier onscreen, she told herself that was just because of the editing.

Now that her best friend was home, Daenerys was certain that everything would finally be perfect. The quiet emptiness she sometimes felt would be filled once more. And for the first few weeks, it was.

Margaery had transformed while away at boarding school. Whatever had caused her to leave Manhattan in such a hurry — and Daenerys still had not yet mustered the courage to ask — seemed to have rocked her to her core. She had cut out all of her wilder partying ways. She didn’t miss classes anymore. And she made a point of extending an invitation to Daenerys for every single event she was invited to.

No more sad-sack Dany sitting in her penthouse while Margaery and Myranda made the society pages.

Truthfully, she _did_ appreciate the effort. It was how she’d ended up preparing for the annual New York Preservation breakfast — an event she’d been cordially uninvited to last year.

After _that photo_ hit the web.

“But you have to come to the brunch, D!” Margaery had exclaimed when she heard. “My grandmother is in town. I’ll have her make a call — they won’t say no to her.”

Truth be told, Daenerys probably would’ve been willing to chance it even without the life jacket that was Olenna; she was still reveling in the newness of Margaery’s return to Manhattan. But invoking the Tyrell matriarch was a stellar closing play.

The retired actress and so-called ‘Queen of Thorns’ was one of the most savage women Daenerys had ever had the pleasure to meet. To say the event’s organizer board would bend to her will was quite likely the understatement of the year.

“If you insist, M,” she’d said.

She got the text not 20 minutes after hanging up with Margaery:

_**M:**  
_ _You’re good to go, D. Grandmother says Bethany Frey claimed it was a misunderstanding and you’ve always been welcome to attend ;). Stupid cow._

A misunderstanding, her ass. Bethany Frey had been the one to disinvite her.

_**D:**  
_ _Thanks M <3\. See you there._

But whether or not the invitation was because of Olenna, Daenerys was determined to look resplendent. The breakfast would be one of her first appearances at an event she wasn’t organizing in almost a year. 

She’d managed to convince Frédéric Fekkai to fit her in for a touchup to her hair; she’d slaved over her makeup until every speck of powder was perfectly set in place. She took special care in selecting her dress: a pink lace number brighter than her normal attire.

She felt good. She felt ready… right up until the moment she attempted to leave the penthouse.

“Daenerys, darling, are you sure you want to wear that?” her mother’s voice called out. She froze by the elevator, reflexively nauseous. She chanced a look toward her.

Rhaella Targaryen was perched on one of the sitting room sofas, brow raised in consideration. Her lips were pursed. 

“I like this color, mother,” Daenerys called back hesitantly. “And it’s for the Preservation brunch. I thought a spring tone would be nice.”

“If you insist,” her mother finally said. “I do think you look better in jewel tones, though, dear. Let’s leave the bright colors to Margaery next time, hmm?”

Her stomach clenched, and she felt bile rise in her throat.

Rhaella had never outright said that she wished her daughter would be more like the Tyrell heiress, but she certainly implied it often enough. When Daenerys was younger, it had bothered her terribly. But chasing her mother’s approval was a fool’s errand, and she had learned to push the simmering anxiety down.

It worked more often than not; but when it came to fashion, her mother was particularly intractable. Having a couture designer for a parent was bound to inspire some sort of wardrobe-induced insecurities, but Rhaella seemed to have truly no qualms at all about critiquing her daughter’s appearance. 

She knew that her mother didn’t understand how much all the needling and thinly-veiled disapproval had impacted her. But every so often, it was just a bit too easy to recall being replaced by her best friend in her mother’s modeling campaign. Too easy to recall the effusive praise for Margaery’s style — while wearing a blue frock Daenerys had lent her. The same piece that Rhaella had frowned at on her just a few weeks prior.

Daenerys didn’t breathe properly again until after she had hustled herself into the elevator and the doors had closed. A phone chime interrupted the itchy discomfort still making its way across her skin:

** _Missandei:  
_ ** _For what it’s worth, I think you look beautiful in pink, Miss Dany!_

Oh, Missandei. The gentle housekeeper was one of the sweetest people Daenerys had ever known. Her mother had worked for the Targaryens for years; and when Daenerys was small, she would play with the girl while her mother worked.

Missandei had taken over the job when her mother retired the year before. Since that day, there was no amount of cajoling on Daenerys’s end that could get her friend to stop calling her ‘Miss.’

Still, the words cheered her a bit.

As promised, Daenerys had no issues at the door. She greeted everyone with a smile, taking extra care to keep Bethany Frey in conversation longer than necessary — just to make the woman uncomfortable. 

Margaery hadn’t arrived yet, but she could see several of her other classmates spread about the room.  And on the far side of the hall, trying to become the next master-of-the-universe, was her boyfriend.

He met her eyes and she waved, but he stayed in place.

Daario was like that sometimes — putting business above their relationship. Once it a while, it made her bubble over with rage. They would shout at each other and stop speaking for a few days. Most of the time, she understood it.

After all, Daenerys was also ruthlessly ambitious; it was one of the things that had bonded them. Instead of approaching, she made rounds of her own, coming to rest in a conversation with an older man.

As if on cue, Daario finally made his way over to her.

“Hello, darling,” he said, sliding a hand onto her lower back and kissing her cheek swiftly.

Daenerys smiled back, sweet but perfunctory. She knew that her boyfriend loved her, but she could tell the difference between when he was greeting her for the sake of greeting her and when he was greeting her for a networking opportunity.

This time was surely for business.

_‘In 3… 2… 1…’_ she thought.

He turned and reached out his hand to Illyrio.

“Mr. Mopatis, such a pleasure. I don’t believe we’ve met before — I’m Daario Naharis.”

Daenerys tuned out as the men began discussing their respective companies, and she pondered how long it would be before she could politely extricate herself from the conversation and find a more stimulating activity. 

Maybe watching Olenna excoriate some of the more idiotic women sucking up to her ahead of her own annual benefit? Society mothers were like vultures whenever they were trying to get their children on a philanthropy’s board.

Yes, that sounded like far more fun. 

Daenerys counted out precisely six minutes in her head, nodding whenever necessary, laughing when Mopatis made a dreadful joke, and pasting a bland smile on her face. When her internal clock finally hit that magic number, she made a small noise of disappointment.

“Oh, I am _so_ sorry, but I really must greet Olenna Tyrell. Excuse me, gentlemen.”

She exhaled the moment her face was out of their line of sight.

* * *

It had been roughly a week since Gossip Girl had taken someone down, so Daenerys really should’ve been more wary. But somehow, she was still surprised when it was her turn to be skewered again.

_Uh oh, Upper East Siders.  
_ _Seems like D’s decade of planning wasn’t enough to get her into Yale… or any of the other Ivies._

Daenerys couldn’t even finish reading the blast.

How in the hell was it possible that Gossip Girl already knew? The week that followed her opening Yale's future-destroying envelope had been numbed by some dastardly confluence of shock and misery. She had barely spoken to another soul.

Daenerys wasn’t just depressed; she was _mortified._ A "decade of planning" had been kind — she’d been telling everyone about her plans for Yale since pre-school.

Her blood was rushing in her ears, the hot embarrassment curling in her stomach. She hadn’t had something so humiliating happen to her since _that photo._ She could feel the eyes of all the others in the hallway land on her, the buzzing hum of their excitement.

Swallowing hard, she lifted her chin and grabbed her English Literature book from her locker, closing it with all the feigned casualness she could muster.

The vultures were always ready to pounce at the slightest sign of weakness.

Daenerys made her way down the hall, the Met steps at the forefront of her mind.

“So sorry about Yale, D!” a voice called out — the sneer in it was so pronounced it was almost visible.

She turned. Jeyne Westerling.

Of course… a bootlicker whenever Daenerys was on top, and worse than unreliable as a friend otherwise. She hadn’t heard from Jeyne once when _that photo_ came out. It was only in the fall, when they returned to Constance Billard and Daenerys had reestablished her dominance of the social order, that the Westerling heiress had come crawling back.

“Not as sorry I am about your SAT scores, Jeyne,” she smiled back. "Tell me, how much did your parents have to donate to Vassar for admissions to ignore those numbers?"

An arch of her brow; a flush on the girl’s cheeks. Daenerys strutted by her and through the now-silent hallway.

It was excruciating.

She made it to the Met steps without much more fanfare, sinking into her usual seat near the top of the first level. She wasn’t hidden from sight here, and crying wasn’t an option… but how she wanted to. 

It was still hard enough to admit to herself that her dreams of Yale would never come true. Worse because she couldn’t figure out _why._

She’d had a straight-A average since kindergarten. Nearly perfect test scores. Diverse extracurriculars. Extensive philanthropic work. High-profile recommendations. Her father was an alumnus, for fuck’s sake.

Daenerys had re-read her application three times before submitting it and twice since her rejection. The only answer she could settle on seemed to be that they simply hadn’t liked her. 

Her phone buzzed three consecutive times — Margaery. Clearly, word of her spat with Jeyne had already made the rounds.  Daenerys fired off a quick text, assuring her friend that she was fine. When she looked back up from her phone, she was startled to see that Jon Stark was walking toward her.

“I hear you’re headed to NYU this fall,” he opened with. 

Her back stiffened defensively.

“Really, Stark? I help your sister, and the thanks I get is a poorly-timed reminder that I will not be attending Yale this fall?”

“At ease, Targaryen,” he said, hands help up in surrender. “It wasn't an insult. I’m heading there, too.”

At this, she tilted her head curiously.

“You’re second in our year,” she said blandly, “and I’ve heard enough of your essays at competitions to know that you’re more than able to write a good one. Surely one of the Ivies must have accepted you?”

He seemed surprised by the praise, flushing a bit. 

“How’d you know I’m second?” he asked, ignoring the rest of her words.

“Because I’m first, Stark,” she said, shaking her head. “I keep track of my competition.”

He snorted a bit at that but didn't follow up.

“Honestly?" he said. "Dartmouth turned me down. I got into Cornell, but NYU offered me a scholarship, and I’d much rather stay in the city than leave.” He hesitated for a moment before continuing. “I did see the Gossip Girl blast, but I can’t believe you weren’t accepted at any of the other Ivies. I’ve heard your essays, too. They’re really very good.”

Her cheeks were burning red. She wasn’t sure why she had bothered to indulge this conversation in the first place, but now she couldn’t make herself stop talking. It was like trying to re-cork a bottle of champagne: utterly useless.

“I wasn’t rejected from the rest of the Ivies,” she said quietly. “I didn’t apply to them. I wasn’t even going to apply to NYU, but my guidance counselor insisted I have a safety school.”

He seemed surprised. “You only applied to Yale?”

Daenerys tilted her chin up, eyes blazing.  “Yale was my dream. Any other school is exactly the same to me.”

He took a seat next to her slowly, and she bit back the retort she was forming. Instead, she settled for a gentler version, almost procedural: “Normally you’d need to sit a step or two down from me, you know… but given my current state of humiliation, I suppose I should be sitting a step below you.”

Blessedly, Jon ignored her ramblings. Instead, he gave her the same strange look she’d seen on his face more than once as of late. 

“Why did you help Sansa?” he asked.

“This again, Stark?” she replied. He was like a dog with a bone, endlessly gnawing.

“Well, you haven’t answered it yet,” he countered. 

She sighed and gave a practiced shrug. “Myranda Rutherfurd is tacky beyond measure, and I was having a slow week.”

“I don’t believe that,” he interrupted. “She hasn’t done anything to you that I can tell, and you don’t strike me as the type to perform revenge-charity for people you barely know. Whatever Sansa wants to believe, she’s obviously not a member of your clique, so why did you really help her?”

And now Daenerys blanched; it had been an alarming amount of insight into her behavior to come from a stranger.

The truth was that Sansa Stark was a nice girl. Sheltered. Jon was right that she didn’t quite fit in among the Constance girls, but her desperation to be part of her crowd was written plainly across her face. She wasn’t equipped to deal with the nastiest behavior that some of their schoolmates could concoct, never mind a monster like Myranda.

But Jon was wrong to say she had no motive. Daenerys knew what it was like to have your self-esteem pulverized. The sensation of cold tiles beneath her knees bubbled inside her brain — the Gossip Girl blast that revealed her deepest secret in the cruelest way. The jeering still seared. She shoved it away and smoothed her uniform over her hips. The skirt fanned out on the museum steps.

One breath in. One breath out.

Jon Stark was still waiting for a reply, but none of those thoughts — absolutely none of them — were his business.

“I don’t care if you believe me,” was all she bothered saying. Daenerys stood and grabbed her Birkin. She left without another word, his eyes burning her skin long after she left his line of sight.

For a moment — just one moment — she wondered what it would have been like to grow up with a brother who actually loved her.

* * *

It seemed she could not escape Jon Stark these days.

In the library, on the Met steps, and now here he was: inexplicably at the Whitney Gala. In a tux.

He looked surprisingly put together — she was used to seeing his hair messy and his clothing rumpled. Tonight, he looked like he had actually tried.Or perhaps it was that his sister had taken the lead: Sansa was beside him in a fitted, gold sequin dress that managed to flatter her tall frame. Daenerys couldn’t place the designer, a rarity.

One worth investigating.

She made her way over to them casually, champagne in hand. (Galas were _so_ lackadaisical about checking ID.)

Sansa noticed her approaching first — her brother was staring into the distance at something undefinable. The girl's face lit up, and she waved.

“Daenerys!” she called out. Only then did Jon’s neck snap to face her.

“Sansa. Brooklyn. Good to see you both,” she said politely. His brow furrowed.

“You realize that my sister is also from Brooklyn, right?” he asked.

Sansa looked mortified. “Jon! Shut up,” she hissed.

“Of course,” Dany replied brightly. “The difference is I like your sister. But speaking of, I’m surprised to see you both here. I don’t usually run into the two of you at galas.”

She directed the question toward Sansa; but truthfully, she was having trouble looking away from Jon. Up close, he looked even more at home in his tuxedo than he had from far away. She was horrified to realize that he was actually a bit attractive.

Sansa, thankfully, was more than happy to volunteer an explanation.

“Our father has been friends with Robert Baratheon since they were kids,” she said. “He’s being honored tonight for some donation he made.”

Daenerys nodded. “That will do it. Well it’s good to see you, S,” she said. Sansa beamed.

She looked back toward Jon and nodded. “Brooklyn,” she said. A lazy salute was his only reply. She turned to leave, pausing just a few steps away.

“By the way, Sansa, who made your dress? I don’t recognize the design.”

Jon's brow raised incredulously, but Sansa flushed.

“I did,” she said.

And now it was Daenerys’s turn to be surprised. “Good job.”

She walked away without another word, curiosity sated and pleased with her discoveries. Who would’ve thought little Sansa Stark could sew like that? That particular gown looked to be too fitted in the bodice for her, but perhaps the girl could make more than one pattern. It was always good to have a secret weapon in the bag, and custom couture definitely qualified.

But any thought of commissioning a design was driven from her mind by the sight of her best friend’s brother up ahead.

“Loras!” Daenerys smiled as she reached him. He beamed back; and she hugged him, the first genuine moment of happiness she’d felt this evening.

“Good to see you, Dany,” he grinned before gesturing to a hesitant-looking man beside him. “Have you met my boyfriend Renly before?”

She shook his hand brightly. “Boyfriend, is it? Welcome to the family, then.”

The look on his face slipped away, and now he, too, was smiling broadly. If she wasn’t mistaken, he was Renly Baratheon. How ironic. He was a surprise baby — decades younger than his brothers — one of whom was Robert Baratheon, the man Sansa had just mentioned.

She turned back toward Loras. “Where’s M? She was supposed to meet me here,” she asked.

Loras’s brow furrowed. 

“I haven’t seen her yet, but she said she had to make a pitstop before coming here tonight, so maybe she got tied up.”

There was a dull tingling in Daenerys’s mind, an unfortunate nostalgia. But Daenerys pushed it back, reminding herself that Margaery was far different now than she had once been.

“I’m sure you’re right,” she said. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. Neither did Loras's.

***

She had known, hadn’t she? In her gut, she had known it was too good to be true. She had known when Loras said his sister was making an unscheduled pitstop that there was something off about the situation.

And she had been right.

Margaery was fucked up again, the way she used to be before boarding school. Still beautiful, still charming… but utterly blacked out. She was slurring her words, stumbling everywhere.

Daenerys could see her chatting with Sansa and her brother; for once, he didn’t appear to have hearts in his eyes. Instead, he seemed concerned.

And then she tripped, stumbling into Robert Baratheon’s ex-wife, Cersei, and knocking the glass of wine from the golden-haired woman’s hands all over her gown.

_Fuck._

The Whitney was not the place for such behavior, and Cersei Lannister was not the type of woman you wanted to fuck with. Daenerys made a break for her friend, grabbing her by the arm and tugging her away before Cersei could begin shrieking.

“Margaery, why would you come here like this?” she asked quietly as she surreptitiously tugged her through the crowd, not pausing until they were outside the main hall. She sat her friend on an upholstered bench.

At this, the girl’s eyes widened, and she grabbed Daenerys by the shoulders.

“D, I fucked up so bad. That’s why I left New York. Because I’m so fucked up.”

She wasn’t making any sense, and Daenerys felt a hot spike of fear well up inside her. There was a reason she hadn’t asked; she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

But she could be brave. She needed to.

“What happened, M?” 

And Margaery told her the whole, horrific tale. The partying. The drugs. Myranda. And a boy, convulsing…an overdose. She’d called the hospital and fled, leaving for Connecticut the same night.

Daenerys sat in shock, mouth gaping.

“But M…” she whispered, “did you ever check what happened to him?”

Margaery’s eyes watered. “I’m too scared.”

Daenerys tucked the drunk girl into her shoulder, debating what in the world to do with that information. Leaving it hanging wasn’t an option, but right now, she couldn’t focus on any other options. Not with her friend weeping openly into her shoulder. The shit storm that could ensue from this was beyond her capabilities while buzzed.

They remained there until Cersei arrived, dragging her ex-husband by the sleeve, still coldly furious. And Robert Baratheon was joined by guests of his own: his brother Renly and Loras; Margaery’s mother, Alerie; and the Starks — all three of them.

“Well, there’s the little drunken wretch,” Cersei said. 

Daenerys’s mind sputtered to a halt. She could see the cold disappointment on Alerie’s face and suddenly knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Margaery’s mother had been waiting for her to fuck up again.

“It was my fault,” Daenerys said suddenly. Every person in the room whirled around to face her. “She took some pills… they’re mine. My anxiety medication. I made a mistake with the bottle. Margaery just wanted ibuprofen, but then she had a glass of wine… It’s not her fault.”

She did her best to look ashamed, but from the corner of her eye, she could see Loras’s skeptical stare. Sansa Stark seemed surprised; and next to her, Jon Stark’s brow furrowed. He was frowning.

“I’m sorry,” Daenerys continued when no one spoke. “I’ll grab my things.”

Loras came forward, and she helped Margaery into his arms. The moment she was secure, Daenerys turned and left, making her way to coatcheck. She reclaimed her property and made it outside to hail a cab, only to realize she wasn’t alone.

Jon Stark was perched up against the wall, one leg bent at the knee, foot pressed against the brick behind him. He really did look at-home in a tuxedo.

“Are you following me?” she asked drily.

He didn’t play along.

“You didn’t need to take the blame, you know,” Jon said quietly.

Her head whipped toward him, eyes narrowing. “What did you say?”

“We both know she didn’t take your anxiety medication, Targaryen,” he replied. “You’re a good liar, but even you have a tell.”

She bristled at his words, only to be interrupted by a familiar phone chime. She glanced down at it lazily, unsurprised to see that Gossip Girl had already managed to blast Margaery’s drunken Whitney meltdown into the ether.

Stark seemed unwilling to accept silence as a response, repeating himself: “Why’d you take the blame?”

Daenerys glared at him. “I realize you’re not used to seeing Margaery as she actually is, as opposed to whatever version of her you’ve been writing sonnets for in your notebook, but this is how these things work, Stark. Margaery fucks up. I fix it.”

He had the decency to redden a small amount at her words but still wouldn’t let it go.

“Why, though?” he asked. “You’re angry at her; I can tell you are. And if she’s done this as many times as you claim, then why keep taking the fall for her?”

The worst part was that she didn’t think he was trying to be rude. He was always so sincere; she hated it.

“Margaery is my best friend,” she scowled. “That might not mean anything to you, but it means something to me.”

He was giving her that look again — the one he gave her when he asked why she’d helped Sansa. That look like she was fascinating. Like she was something unexpected. Like he was trying to unravel her.

It was unnerving, not the least of which because sometimes when Stark looked at her like that, she thought he might be close to succeeding.

“I’m not criticizing you,” he said gently. “I was just surprised.”

“Don’t be,” she spat, unsure why she was so riled. “Now, if you don’t mind, Brooklyn, I’d like to be anywhere else.”

He stepped aside, and she made to brush past him when she felt his hand lightly tug at her wrist.

She turned, and he was still giving her that same damned look.

“Margaery is lucky,” he said quietly, “to have a friend like you.”

Well, that was… 

She nodded stiffly, and he released her. Daenerys got into a cab quietly, pondering how, when, and why it had happened that Jon Stark’s opinion actually sort of mattered to her.

* * *

College was terrible. 

She had set her expectations low, given that New York University was already a significant departure from her collegiate aspirations. As it turned out, her bar had not been low enough.

NYU was nothing like Constance Billard. Nothing like the Upper East Side.

It was large and overwhelming. Her courses (and professors) were acceptable, but the campus paled in comparison to Yale’s. She had longed for a real college feel; NYU was determinedly urban. And she simply didn’t fit there. She stood out like a navy blue dress at a noir party — everything about her felt incongruous with the ethos of the institution.

Worst of all, she’d had less than no luck in making friends. Her personality was perfectly suited for 60 blocks north of where she was, but it seemed abundantly clear that she was unqualified to navigate the social waters at a school where family names, old money and high-octane schemes were irrelevant.

After two months of it, she knew she needed to take drastic action.

As much as it felt like she was alone at NYU, she wasn’t. And though it pained her to admit that Jon Stark was her best hope for any semblance of a social life, there were things more important to her than her pride.

In high school, Jon had practically lived in the library that Constance and St. Jude’s shared. It hadn’t been a stretch to assume he’d carry that proclivity to college, and she had been right.

She found him sitting in the French literature section, his mop of hair like a shining beacon. He was absorbed in whatever book he had in hand, to the point where he didn’t so much as look up until she had taken the seat directly across from him.

When he finally met her gaze, his eyes widened a bit before he settled into a smile.

“Daenerys Targaryen,” he said, closing his book, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I have come to the conclusion that you may know more than I do about the types of banal social interactions people who live below 63rd Street engage in,” she said stiffly.

Jon seemed to be trying very hard not to laugh. To his credit, he almost succeeded. Perhaps Daenerys needed to re-evaluate his potential as an individual, for it seemed Stark was slightly more disciplined than she’d believed him to be.

He ruined any charitable thoughts she was having about him by speaking: “Are you asking me for my help?”

_‘Never mind,’_ she thought. He had no subtlety at all; clearly she should have had faith in her first impression.

“No,” she replied firmly, “I’m asking to retain your services as a social companion for an evening. I will, of course, compensate you.”

“You want to compensate me? For hanging out with you?” He looked a bit bemused by the concept.

She nodded stiffly, trying to hide her relief that he hadn’t yet refused. “Of course. I realize you’re from Brooklyn, but surely even Williamsburg hipsters haven’t yet managed to eliminate the concept of payment for rendered services.”

He laughed now, loudly, not even trying to stop himself. Her lips twitched against her will. At least his laugh wasn't as annoying as his hair.

“Only you, Targaryen. But how about a free trial, then?” he asked. “So you can see if you want to subscribe for a package deal.”

“Very well,” she sniffed, “though I expect that I shall not.”

***

Jon had talked her into attending a house party in the East Village. By the time she arrived on Avenue B, she had nearly talked herself out of it.  Just when she was about to send him a text canceling this unquestionably stupid excursion, he rounded the corner.

“Daenerys!” he exclaimed. “You came. I wasn’t sure if you would.”

“Despite my better judgment, I’m here,” she said drily. “Please tell me these buildings have elevators.”

He wore a grin like the devil’s, and her heart sank.

“Whose home is this again?” she grimaced a few minutes later, as they made their way up the dirtiest flight of stairs she’d ever seen.

“Sam Tarly’s,” he called over his shoulder. “Party’s on the roof, but he lives in the top-floor apartment, so we shouldn’t have a problem.”

Clearly, they defined the word ‘problem’ differently, but she swallowed her skepticism. She had asked him to bring her here, after all — even if that was clearly an enormous error in judgment.

They finally made it to the top of the stairwell, and Jon pushed the door open, the city lights shimmering as they stepped into the night air. But before they could make it any closer toward the raucous partygoers, he paused, turning to her.

“Two things,” he started.

“You’re adding conditions _now,_ Stark?” she interrupted with a drawl.

“They’re easy ones,” he said. “First, you have to actually try to get along with people. I know most of this crowd isn’t like what you’re used to, but this is a waste of time if you’re determined to hate everyone.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine. I will try. What’s the second condition?”

“You have to lose this.” Without further ado, he plucked her blueberry-colored headband from her head and lazily tossed it behind him.

Her mouth should have been gaping, but honestly, what did she expect? She had agreed to come to a Village party on a roof with _Jon Stark._

“You realize that headband was probably worth more than the sum of everything you’re wearing, right?” she asked drily. Her head felt strangely bare without it, the long brown curls naked and exposed.

The wind was mussing Jon’s hair, too, and he was wearing a tacky plaid shirt she strongly suspected was made of polyester. But then his lip twitched, and he grinned at her.

For a broody Brooklynite, Jon Stark had a rather nice smile.

She banished the thought. It seemed abundantly clear that Daenerys had already spent too much time in lower Manhattan if she found a single thing about Jon Stark’s face attractive.

“The headband screams pretentious, Daenerys,” he said.

“The way your shirt screams K-Mart?” she sniffed, brushing by him to reclaim her accessory from the filthy roof before some brainless co-ed spilled cheap beer on it.

Her eyes were narrow, but his smile only grew wider.

“You’re pretty funny, you know,” he said. “I never realized that.”

The compliment took her by surprise — a pleasant enough one that she let something genuine slip through: “Probably because you were too busy daydreaming about Margaery.”

It was the type of comment that should have made her flush. The last thing she needed was for Stark to misinterpret her words. But to her shock, he seemed to nod to himself. Considering her.

“Maybe you’re right,” he finally said. “Now come on, Targaryen. You’ve got classmates to assimilate with.”

***

So far, the party hadn’t been completely awful. There was even one girl, Irri, who she thought she might be able to get along with. Irri was studying linguistics, hated beer pong and had mentioned how much she loved Daenerys’s outfit _before_ hearing her surname.

Irri also seemed kind. She could work with that.

The two of them spent what must’ve been at least an hour or so chatting; it was going so well that Dany even agreed to ‘make the rounds’ with her. And Irri’s presence seemed to do for her what she could not do for herself: Daenerys was certain that half the plebeian partygoers she’d been introduced to would’ve sneered at her if not for the other girl’s friendly nature. But Irri disarmed them, and by the end of her rooftop tour, she felt like she could have managed a few of those conversations without a referee.

Unfortunately, Irri had to head out for the evening, but they exchanged numbers.  Feeling slightly buzzed and flush with victory, she went looking for Jon.

She found him standing just off to the side with Ygritte Whatever-Her-Name-Was. The two seemed to be having a relatively heated discussion, which Daenerys would have immediately ignored had she not heard her own name.

“I can’t imagine why you would ever willingly hang out with Daenerys Targaryen,” the redhead scowled. “She’s everything you’ve ever claimed to hate about the Upper East Side! She’s rude; she’s self-absorbed. I’m not even sure how you two became friends.”

Funny, because she could say the same.

Daenerys couldn’t _stand_ Ygritte. She’d had the misfortune of meeting her earlier in the evening, and the encounter had left her utterly baffled. There was no telling why Jon found it prudent to introduce them, for there had quite possibly never been two people less suited for friendship. She had already been quite certain the redhead felt the same; this discussion merely confirmed it.

They were so dissimilar that even attending the same university felt like a stretch, but it seemed to be the only thing they did have in common. That, and possibly… _maybe…_ being friends with Jon Stark, loathe as she was to admit it.  He had done her a favor by bringing her here, by helping her when she was alone. He was clever, exceedingly so. And strangely enough, he seemed to enjoy her barbs.

_‘You’re funny, you know,’_ he’d said. She wanted to be. In the quietest part of her mind, Daenerys thought that Jon might see her more clearly than anyone else did.

Friends.

Maybe they could be friends.

“Don’t you think you’re being a bit dramatic, Ygritte?” she could hear Jon ask. “Daenerys isn’t a monster.” There was a pause, and then: “Well, not all the time, anyway.”

Or not.

***

The roof was spinning, a kaleidoscope of light.

Daenerys had taken more shots than she normally would, feeling strangely wounded by his words.  She knew who she was — she knew she could be vindictive. Underhanded, even. But the full force of her vendettas were reserved for those who had wronged someone she loved.

She had never done a damn thing to Jon Stark.

The bitter taste of irritation was still resting on her tongue, and she poured another vodka soda — well, there was vodka in there, at least. She kept sipping.

Some dumb boy was standing in front of her, wearing a polo shirt and sneakers. He had been there for a while, persistently trying to talk to her. His face was blurry, but it felt more important to her to reaffirm that one should never wear such a combination.

She really ought to tell him that. To help him. Whenever he finished speaking.

But the boy didn't get a chance to, because soon another blurry figure had replaced him. His face was out-of-focus, too, but she’d recognize that voice anywhere.

“…completely wasted…the fuck is wrong with you?” It sounded angry — Jon’s voice. 

Good. She was angry, too.

The first boy was gone now, chased away by Jon.

“Did you tell him about his shoes?” she slurred.

Now that he wasn’t moving, his face had started to sharpen. He looked confused.

“His shoes?”

“With a polo shirt — no good,” she concluded, nodding. 

His confusion dissipated but was replaced with something inscrutable. And suddenly, he was far too close.

“C’mon, Daenerys. Let me make sure you get home, alright?” Jon’s stupid Brooklyn brogue murmured in her ear. His arms were warm around her waist, but she pushed him off.

She was still mad at him. Even if he smelled nice.

“You know, you act like you’re a nice guy, but you’re not,” she slurred. In the darkest reaches of her mind, she knew this would be embarrassing in the morning, but the liquor coating her mind made it hard to care.

His brows were knit together, and he had the nerve to look upset by the pronouncement. 

“I just want to help you get back safe, Daenerys,” he finally said. “Nothing else, I promise.”

She prodded his chest, disturbed when her mind chose to register that his skinny frame actually had some muscle on it.

“Why bother? Apparently, I’m a monster.” she said. “Or am I not a monster often enough?”

His cheeks reddened a bit, and she felt swollen with victory. But Jon didn’t back down.

“Ygritte can be difficult,” he replied. “She’s set in her beliefs. I thought it would be easier to tell her what she wanted to hear than to explain why I brought you out.” 

She hated him for sounding earnest, hated herself for caring what some bull-headed Brooklynite in a bargain-bin button-up thought about her. Mostly, though, she hated being here, friendless and alone, when all she wanted was to be at Yale — or hell, even just on the Upper East Side, with people who actually liked her.

Unbidden, her eyes began to water; Jon’s own widened, horrified.

Daenerys didn’t care how much she’d had to drink. Under no circumstances was she going to cry in front of Jon Stark. She pivoted abruptly, fumbling with the door handle to the stairwell and calling for a car with a dexterity that was shameful. But it did the job.

She stumbled once or twice heading down to the ground floor, but the spike of adrenaline had cleared some of the fog from her brain. Every impulse was focused on survival: surviving the stairs, surviving that conversation and surviving the doubled-down ache that Jon hadn’t found it worth time or effort to defend her.

Whatever hesitation he’d had in following her had served her well. Jon did come barreling down into the street behind her, but only after she’d climbed into the cab and shut the door. 

His eyes burned through the glass and into her. She turned to face the driver instead.

“All set, thanks,” she mumbled, and he pulled away.

Only then did she let the first drop fall.

* * *

Things with Daario were better lately — far better than they had been for a long time. It was less and less often that she felt like he was putting work needs above her, and he was actually trying to plan things for them. He’d surprised her at her dorm room just hours earlier with a bouquet of peonies and a table at Rao’s. 

An excursion to upper Manhattan was precisely what she needed to feel a bit more like herself again after the lonely week she’d had at school. Try as she might, Irri was still the only friend she’d made at NYU, and she had been busy lately with finals. 

Margaery had remained on the wagon for months now and always made herself available to catch up, but she didn’t really understand. She hadn’t even applied to college yet, choosing to take a gap year instead.

But Rao’s had been a cure-all. The delicious food, the homey atmosphere… even the exclusivity. It was a reminder that she was _Daenerys Targaryen._

When they finished, she even convinced him to forego the limo and take a stroll with her down Madison Avenue. All in all, it had been a perfect evening.

Too perfect.

_Planned_ perfect.

Cynic that she was, Daenerys had been half-certain that Rao's was an attempt to soften her ahead of an apology. But it turned out that what he’d really been doing was planning to pitch an opportunity.

“Naharis Industries is about to close a lucrative deal with a company in Beijing,” he opened with. “My father has asked me to oversee the deal.”

Her mouth dropped, surprise and honest joy tearing through her. 

“Daario! That’s fantastic!” she exclaimed. Her boyfriend spent his life trying to impress his eternally disappointed father — she knew what this must mean to him.

He smiled back at her but didn’t speak immediately. He seemed to be working on how to phrase his next words.

“The catch is that I would need to be there to oversee it… it will likely mean six months there,” he said.

“Oh,” she replied. Her heart fell; there was no way he’d turn down such an opportunity.

“I want you to come with me,” he said.

She looked up, stunned. “What?” she choked out.

“I want you there with me. This deal will be huge for my place in the company, for our future. You hate NYU anyway — you could take some time off, explore Beijing…” Every word was overwhelming. She felt something wild build up inside her. 

Was this a turning point for them? Was this commitment to her proof that her faith in him had been rewarded?

“Would that even be allowed?” she asked. “Wouldn’t your father mind if I went with you?”

He took her hands in his.

“It’s already done,” he said, voice slick with pride. “I convinced him that having you with me would mean less distraction, not more.”

She smiled back at him, teasing. “Your negotiating skills must have improved quite a bit if you got me approved so quickly.”

Daario always preened at her praise.

“It wasn’t easy, I’ll tell you that. Took about a month of back-and-forth with him, and then another couple weeks to assure the rest of the board.”

He kept going, launching into a story about some particularly irksome board member, but her brain had frozen. Her mind was like a scratched record, skipping and repeating the same words over and over again: _“…a month…another couple weeks…a month…another couple weeks…”_

“You’ve been planning this for that long?” she asked abruptly, cutting off his monologue.

Later, she would determine that had his face reacted to her words in any other way, that might have been the end of the discussion. But his smile dropped, and his eyes steeled — Daario’s ready-for-an-argument face. And that rang her alarm bells more than anything else could have. He was ready for an argument that she wasn’t ready for, that she didn’t know about.

There was nothing inherently _awful_ about him having kept the plans from her until they were certain; she had just been surprised to hear how long it had been. And he knew her… well enough to know she wouldn’t start a fight over that.

Which meant there was something else wrong.

“What aren’t you telling me, Daario?” she asked. His back stiffened, and her heart dropped.

“Nothing,” he snapped. “I just thought you would be happy — not complain that I didn’t tell you right away.”

“I didn’t _complain,”_ she snapped back. “I asked you one question. It’s not the end of the world, but I _am_ in college. It might have been nice to be looped in a bit sooner so I could have some time to figure out what it would do to my degree to take six months off.”

He snorted.

Whenever Daario felt like he was losing something, he coiled in like a snake. He had to strike first, strike harder. It’s just who he was, what he did.

“Please, Daenerys. You hate NYU; who are you kidding? That entire degree is a waste of your time.”

He had rightly predicted the argument, then, because now she was furious.

“My education is not a waste of time,” she snarled.

“You don’t need a degree from a university you can’t stand,” he pressed. “You don’t even need a degree, really. Just tell me what you want to do — I can afford to fund it. What we need is to be together. That’s why I did all of this — _everything_ I have done has been to try and protect this relationship.”

“I want to make something of myself, Daario,” she retorted, “not rely on my boyfriend to give me startup money. And I _want_ a degree. Just because NYU isn’t Yale doesn’t…” she trailed off.

Daenerys could feel the blood rush out of her face, a terrible thought entering her mind. It was too terrible, too unbelievable. 

And too plausible.

“You didn’t…” she began. “You wouldn’t… please tell me you didn’t have your father make a call to Yale.”

His pause was just the slightest bit too long, but it was enough. She could see the surprised displeasure in his eyes. It wasn’t even shame.

He was mad that she’d caught him.

She stepped back from Daario, stunned.

“Why would you —” Daenerys cut herself off. For once, she was entirely lost for words.

Daario at least did her the decency of not denying it.

“New Haven is a dump, Daenerys,” he spat, unyielding. “And it’s hours from the city. What did you expect me to do, take the Metro North out to Connecticut every week?”

“I _expected_ my boyfriend to recognize that when I said Yale was my dream, I meant it,” she shrieked, her voice raising so quickly that several people in the room looked toward them. “And you just let me think they’d rejected me, that I wasn’t good enough for them? How could you do this to me?”

She was shouting now, blind from tears. Her heart was pounding so hard that she thought she might pass out.

“I thought you would apply to Columbia, but you didn’t. I’m not the one who told you that your only backup should be a school you can’t stand.”

It took no thought, no consideration. Daenerys slapped him hard across the face, palm stinging in the aftermath. Without a word, she pivoted and hurried away, ignoring as he yelled out her name. She stumbled on the sidewalk, throwing a hand out blindly.

A yellow cab stopped before her and she wrenched the door open, shutting it in his face.

_Months._ She could have been — _should_ have been — months into her freshman year at Yale. And Daario had taken that from her.

For greed. For laziness. For himself.

God, what the fucking hell did it even matter?

She had never been so humiliated. Never. Not when her dad left, not when Gossip Girl published _that photo._ Not even when Margaery left without saying goodbye.

Daario’s actions had been so callous, so arrogant, so cold. He seemed to have been content never to tell her. 

She could hear him calling out her name still as the cab pulled away, but Daenerys resolved not to look back at him — the weight of what he’d done felt like it would crush her chest to pulp. Everything they had been through… all of it had been for nothing.

And nothing was what she was left with.

* * *

Against all odds, she had been able to keep the true cause of their split out of Gossip Girl’s hands. The blog hadn’t even reported the breakup. There was a small blurb about how Daenerys had been seen shouting “How could you do this to me?” toward him, but that was it.

The public consensus seemed to be that Daario had cheated on her. Though she would normally loathe to tolerate such rumors, in this case, it was fine with her. Daenerys wasn’t ready yet to face everything that had happened.

She had fled back to her penthouse after the breakup, unable to so much as look at NYU’s campus for more than a week after Daario’s revelations.

It had taken Daenerys two days to eat any of the food Missandei had consistently brought her. 

Four days for her to return any of Margaery’s calls.

On the sixth day, she ventured out of her bedroom to shower.

When she finally left her building 10 days after their breakup, it was on a mission. She had been rejected from Yale because of Daario. Without his influence at play, perhaps she could transfer there.  But that would only happen if she got herself out of bed and back into her courses.

She was already averaging straight As, but she needed an internship. She needed updated letters of recommendation. She needed _a plan._

It took Daenerys roughly an hour to withdraw from her dormitory. By the time she made it back to the apartment, she felt like her entire spirit was lighter.

It would take up more of her time to commute to campus, but Daenerys was moving home. And thanks to a well-timed fight with her mother, her best friend was moving in too.

Margaery was the only person alive who Daenerys had confessed the truth to.

“I’m so sorry, D,” the blonde had cried, embracing her tightly. “We can get back at him! We can do something.”

“It’s alright, M,” she said, wrapped in the girl’s arms. “I’ll be okay now.”

* * *

Daario left her three messages.

They went unanswered.

* * *

Missandei was getting married — amusingly enough to the Tyrell’s doorman, Grey.

The woman had paused in her doorway the night prior, just before heading home for the evening.

“Miss Dany?” came her quiet voice.

She looked over toward her. “Miss Andei?” she asked, putting a gap in her name. It was an old, stupid joke between them. It still made the woman smile whenever she did it.

“I’d like to ask you something.”

Daenerys waved her in.

Missandei came toward the bed, sitting gently on the end of it. Slowly, she stretched her left hand out — a small but beautiful diamond ring on her finger.

“You’re getting married?!” Daenerys all-but shrieked.

Missandei’s smile was radiant. “Grey proposed to me last night… and we decided we don’t want to wait. We’re going to go to City Hall this weekend. I was wondering if you would attend.”

Her eyes watered. “Of course, I will!” she exclaimed. “I’d be honored.”

“You can bring Mr. Naharis, too, of course,” she said. Daenerys froze. “In my mother’s home country, it is a tradition to have a happy couple attend the wedding. I would love if you would be ours.”

Missandei was still beaming; she couldn’t bring herself to ruin it.

“I… yes, of course, I will,” she stuttered.

She sat there horrified for a few moments, wondering what the hell she had just done. She needed to undo it immediately.

“Wait!” she called, just as Missandei reached the door. “Wait, I… there’s…” She took a deep breath. “I haven’t told you something.”

Missandei’s face instantly filled with concern, so genuine that Daenerys felt like a monster. Part of her wished she could just take back her words, smile with Daario for the day and be supportive. But what was done was done.

Missandei came back across the room toward her, sitting and taking her hands.

“I’ll still be there, if you want me to,” Daenerys said. “But Daario and I broke up. I can’t — _we_ can’t be the happy couple for your wedding.”

The rest of the story tumbled from her mouth; it felt like venom seeping out of a wound. When she finally finished, the woman’s eyes were distressed.

“I’m so sorry, Miss Dany. I haven’t seen him at all — I should have realized you and Daario weren’t right. But you usually tell me everything.”

Heat colored Daenerys's cheeks.

“I was ashamed… of what he did. Of not finding out sooner. I didn’t want to admit it.” Daenerys squeezed her hands tightly. “But I’ll find you another couple before the weekend. The happiest couple in Manhattan, I promise. I’m so sorry I can’t do this for you, that I have to disappoint you…”

“Oh, Dany,” the woman sighed gently, pulling her into her arms. “You’re not disappointing me. I don’t need you to be part of a happy couple. I just need you to be _happy.”_

* * *

Missandei and Grey married on a sunny Saturday afternoon.

Their smiles were blinding.

It was the right kind of love. A _good_ love.

* * *

Daario left for Beijing the day after New Year’s.

Manhattan felt brighter without his presence.

* * *

It had been a little more than two months since the train-wreck that was Sam Tarly’s party, and Daenerys hadn’t seen Jon Stark once in that time. The brief period of insanity she had experienced causing her to think he might have been worth befriending had been enough to put her off the man entirely. And he hadn't exactly come looking for her, either.

But she couldn’t ignore him anymore, because he was here. She wasn’t sure, at first, that it was him. It seemed hard to believe that _Jon Stark_ would show up at Film Forum, of all places. Of all days. Of all _times._ Perhaps she was wrong.

“Is that you, Stark?” she called out as a test. “Because if so, then there is truly nowhere left on this island that’s safe from hipsters.”

Apparently there wasn’t, because when he whipped his face around to look at her, she was proven right. It was, in fact, Stark gaping at her from three seats away, wearing a heinous pair of boots and holding a large bag of popcorn. Some of the excess butter had stained through the paper lining. In front of them, the screen still lingered on advertisements.

“Daenerys?” he asked, surprised. He fell silent. 

“Yes?” she replied, just as truncated.

He finally found his voice: “What are _you_ doing at a documentary about the New York Dolls?”

His presumption was nearly as revolting as his shoes.

“Malcolm McLaren was in a relationship with Vivienne Westwood for years,” Daenerys said back peevishly. “She designed a significant amount of their stage-wear in the mid-1970s.”

“Who is Vivienne Westwood?” he asked blankly.

Daenerys scowled and moved to sit beside him, using the remaining time before the film started to educate him on the long and illustrious career Vivienne Westwood had enjoyed.

And if they stood outside the cinema deconstructing the documentary for an hour after it ended, that was only because she hadn’t made it through the 80s before the lights dimmed. Explaining Westwood’s career to the uninitiated took _time._

* * *

Jon and Daenerys weren’t friends. She was having Veselka at 11:00 p.m. solely because it was one of the few dine-in establishments she could guarantee no one she knew would be at — not because she wanted to spend time with him. 

She supposed she could grudgingly admit that pierogis (while dreadful for her figure) were tasty. And she could even (more grudgingly) admit that Jon Stark knew his classical novels just a smidgen better than she did. But that was all that was behind this: intellectual stimulation.

So what if they’d seen one (or three) of the same films?

They very determinately were _not_ attending Film Forum together, so as far as she was concerned, any question of friendship was highly irrelevant. When two acquaintances ran into each other, it was natural to catch up with one another afterwards. It would almost be rude not to.

She expressed that very thought to Jon; his response was the faintest upturn of his lips.

“Plausible deniability, Daenerys? If you insist.”

That was close enough to agreeing with her, even if it wasn’t delivered in the manner she would prefer. She sat back in her seat and grinned.

“Stark, sometimes I can’t believe you weren’t raised in the Upper East Side... And yes, that’s the nicest thing I’ve ever said to you.”

* * *

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, Targaryen,” Jon started as they wandered through the biographies section of The Strand, “Doesn’t Naharis mind how often we’ve been hanging out?”

She didn’t pause — didn’t even look toward him.

“Well, we broke up in December, so I really couldn’t say. Also, running into one another at a bookstore is not the same as hanging out.”

For once, Jon didn’t play along with her banter. 

“You broke up? What happened?” he asked, stopping abruptly. He even had the nerve to sound concerned. It was touching, and she hated that. It made it harder to hold him at a distance.

“Daario was born an asshole, and he’ll die an asshole. New subject,” she said, voice clipped.

At his continued silence, she sighed and finally met his gaze.

“Look,” she whispered, “I know you have some compulsive need to not let issues drop, but I am not prepared to discuss this one.”

“That’s fair,” he finally said. And to her immense surprise, he closed the distance between them, reaching to her side and plucking a book from the table. She could feel his warmth radiating; her heart raced just the slightest bit.

“You should try this one,” he said, handing it to her gently. “I think you’ll like it.”

She glanced down at the title, ‘Free Woman,’ and then back up at him.

“Okay.”

* * *

They hadn’t planned to meet at Central Park that afternoon. She had simply mentioned, via text message, that it seemed like it would be an unseasonably warm winter day. Possibly good for a stroll near the duck pond.

Jon had replied that he often liked to take walks around 2:00 p.m., which she agreed was an ideal hour to maximize sunlight.

Then, they had run into one another. _By accident._

“Here,” he said, brandishing a familiar cup in her direction. “I think this is how you take yours.” 

“You trekked all the way to Sant Ambroeus to get me coffee? Why?” Daenerys asked, torn between surprise and suspicion.

“Don’t worry — it’s not poisoned. I’ve just noticed that you’re slightly less hostile when adequately caffeinated,” he replied.

“Thank you, though we still aren’t friends,” she said, taking the proffered coffee cup. She was less surprised than she should have been to realize that he had gotten her order right.

“Of course we aren’t,” Jon agreed, but his eyes were shining. “But you don’t need to be friends with someone to run into them at the Yayoi Kusama exhibit this weekend, right?”

Daenerys tilted her head at him, considering. 

His scarf was hideous.

“I do love a good infinity mirror room,” she allowed.

* * *

After more than a month of waiting, day one of her internship had arrived. Daenerys had clinched one of the coveted positions at W Magazine precisely 32 days earlier, and each day since had been a trial in patience.

Jon was interning for a magazine, too — though they had agreed not to tell each other where they were applying. That was the sort of thing that a friend would do. For example, she knew Margaery was currently interning for a film production company. She knew Trystane’s father had gotten him an internship with a hedge fund. Even Daario, who she was still very much not speaking to, had taken up a part-time position at his father’s company.

Gossip Girl had mentioned it.

While she and Jon had perhaps graduated to acquaintances, they were nowhere near that level… which is why it was so surprising to hear his voice just as she stepped inside the main lobby at W.

“Daenerys?” a familiar voice sounded.

She pivoted, and a mop of curls connected to a plaid shirt came into view.

“Stark?” she exclaimed. “What are _you_ doing here?”

His brows were knitted; he crossed his arms protectively over his chest. “I’m interning here,” he said. “What are _you_ doing here?”

Her mouth was gaping, and she could feel it. Normally, such indignity would be beneath her, but Jon Stark was simply not allowed to be interning at W Magazine. Not in this lifetime or in any other.

_“I’m_ interning here,” she exclaimed. “Why would _you_ intern at W? You don’t know Tom Ford from Tommy Hilfiger!”

“W has an excellent culture section,” he fired back, sounding hideously well-practiced. 

She raised a brow in her best imitation of him. _“Women’s culture,”_ she said slowly. _“Fashion_ culture.”

His mouth tightened, and Daenerys preened internally. Besting Jon in an argument — even one as absurd as this — never failed to lift her spirits.

“Well, Targaryen,” he said, “I suppose I’ll just have to learn a bit more about Moo Moo and Kristen Louboutin.”

Daenerys felt her eye twitch so hard she was certain it had been visible. “It’s _Miu Miu_ and _Christian_ Louboutin,” she half-whispered, half shrieked.

He smirked, and she realized in an instant that she’d been played.

“Oh, look,” he said, “I’m learning already. You should pay attention, Targaryen. Our supervisor is speaking.”

And indeed she was — a severe looking blonde was rattling off instructions, an almost endless list of them.

“Whatever, Stark,” she murmured. “Just don’t get in my way.”

***

They had been coworkers for three days now, and Daenerys was finally accepting that she had underestimated Jon. It seemed growing up in the same household as Sansa had rubbed off on him. He knew more about designers than some of the other interns did — an appalling standard, considering most were studying at FIT or Parsons.

But what Jon lacked in knowledge of women’s interests, he made up for in sheer working skills. Daenerys had never had an actual job before; she hadn’t known it was still possible to operate a fax machine.

Jon, on the other hand, seemed like he moonlighted as an office grunt. And he appeared to derive some sick pleasure out of jump-scaring her.

“How you doing there, Targaryen?” his voice said, frighteningly close to her ear. She could feel his warm breath on her neck; it made the flesh on her arms tingle.

“Can someone grab me a stapler?” their supervisor called out absently.

Daenerys peeled away and tore through the office, Jon hot on her heels, reaching the desk just a moment before him. She snatched the stapler before he could and — just for luck — kicked one of his shins. 

“Give it up, Targaryen,” he called out from behind her as he rubbed the spot she’d kicked. “I’m better at this type of thing than you are.”

Daenerys managed to flip him off as she ran to deliver the tool, convincing herself the manic grin on her face was there because she had won.

No other reason.

That feeling carried her through lunch and into the afternoon, when the two of them had been directed to prepare gift bags for an upcoming magazine party.

‘Directed’ was perhaps a strange choice of word. It was more like their supervisor had asked for volunteers for a party-related task, and she had been the first to respond. 

Jon’s hand-raise had followed a beat later.

They had been setting up the bags for the better part of an hour before she finally broke the silence.

“I suppose I should thank you for volunteering to help me, Stark,” she said. 

He looked up from his makeshift station on the ground, a surprised look in his eyes.

“You’ve never thanked me for anything. What do you want, Daenerys?” 

She tsked in his direction. “That’s because you usually don’t do anything worth receiving a ‘thank you’ for. But I’ve been keeping an eye on the other interns the last few days; they’re terrible.”

His brow arched impressively.

“You’re thanking me because you don’t like any of the other interns?” he drawled.

Jon always played along with her; it really was delightful.

She clapped her hands together and smirked. “Don’t be ridiculous, Stark. I don’t like you, either. But you are undoubtedly more competent than the rest of the idiots I could be partnered with. Must be that St. Jude’s education finally paying a dividend.”

Jon’s mouth was tilted up at the corners. It was subtle, but Daenerys knew him well enough by now that she could tell he was trying not to laugh. Finally, he seemed unable to hold it in any longer.

“I can’t believe you’re so elitist about our high schools,” he chuckled. “Or actually… I suppose I can. Didn’t people call you Queen D back then? And look at you now: on the floor stuffing gift bags with me.”

Her eyes nearly rolled out of her head. “Impressive, Stark. One can only wonder how long you’ve been holding onto that incredible bit of banter for.”

He was outright laughing now, and she was struck again — as she had once been — that he had a decent laugh.

“Not as long as I’ve been holding on to this piece of intel for: Allyria Dayne is sick,” Jon said. “She had to cancel. The editors are locked in a conference room right now scrambling to find a replacement author for tomorrow.”

Her jaw dropped. That wasn't exactly a _small_ bit of intelligence. “And you know this how, exactly?”

He smirked. “I overheard them yelling when I went to the restroom an hour ago.”

The beginnings of a scheme were forming in her mind; Jon’s voice cut across them: “Absolutely not, Targaryen. I know that face. What are you up to?”

“Oh, nothing,” she replied in a sing-song voice. “Just that if an intern were able to find a suitable replacement for the event, she would probably be very appreciated for it.”

Jon sat back a bit, appraising her. His eyes narrowed appreciatively.

“I suppose if that intern basically saved the event, he might even get hired on full-time,” he said.

_“She,_ Stark. You’re far too young for your hearing to be failing you.”

They grinned at each other like loons.

“You’re on,” he said. “We each try and get our own author for the event. Whichever author they go with wins.”

“Wins what, exactly?” she asked.

He shrugged lazily. “We’ll figure something out.”

Daenerys extended her hand, chin up. “Very well. May the best woman win.”

Jon shook it firmly. “But Daenerys — no sabotaging each other.”

She rolled her eyes. “Like I’d need to resort to sabotage to beat you, Stark. But agreed. No sabotage.”

***

There was a skip in her step when she arrived at work the next morning; she even brought Jon a coffee as a sign of goodwill. (And, in all honesty, just to see the look on his face.)

He didn't disappoint as he took it from her, mouth agape.

“Fuck’s sake, Targaryen,” he said. “Is Sansa alive?”

She raised a brow at him. “What are you on about now, Stark?”

“Just trying to figure out what you’ve done if you’re bringing me coffee.”

She tutted at him, her madwoman grin returning.

“Don’t be so cynical,” she said smugly. “I’m just in an excellent mood this morning... because my author is going to crush your author.”

He leaned back in his office chair, slouching in a horribly appealing way. 

“Funny you say that,” he drawled, “because my author — Davos Seaworth — used to be good friends with Stannis Baratheon. Remind me who Stannis is married to, again?”

She tilted her head toward him, acknowledging the riposte. Selyse Baratheon, née Florent, was a shareholder at the magazine, a far better effort from Jon than she’d anticipated. But she always came prepared.

“Wow, Stark, I'm impressed! Such a good booking. If only my author — Ellaria Sand — was involved with someone high up at the magazine… _oh right!_ She has regular trysts with Yara Greyjoy.”

Yara was a shareholder, too, and 'shareholder' definitely beat 'shareholder's spouse' for connections. Jon knew it too, grimacing.

She dropped a manicured hand on his shoulder in a show of faux comfort.

“Don’t worry, Stark. I’ll put in a good word for you once they hire me.” 

He did the strangest thing, then, picking up his own hand and placing it over hers. It felt… warm. Her body felt oddly light. 

“Thanks for that, Dany,” he said drily, but his eyes were full of mirth.

“Only my friends get to call me Dany,” she snipped.

“Fake friends count in your world, right?” he asked.

_Hmm._

Maybe.

***

Ellaria Sand was late.

That wasn’t surprising, in of itself. Artists were often late, and authors even more. But Daenerys wished that in this instance, the woman would break with tradition and arrive when she said she would.

She had even lied to Ellaria, claiming the party began 30 minutes before it actually did, in hopes that she would get there on time. But they were now entering the period at which guests were a little more than fashionably late, and there was still no sign of her.

Daenerys had been nervously tapping her foot by the door for about 15 minutes when Jon finally made his way toward her. She sighed, too wired to properly banter with him.

“So, Davos isn’t here yet,” he opened with.

She shrugged, though she could feel a small amount of relief make its way onto her face. At least she hadn’t lost to Jon yet.

“He is notoriously reclusive, Stark. I wouldn’t be surprised if he skips the whole event,” she said, still eyeing the dwindling crowd by the door.

Her attention was drawn by Jon’s sarcastic retort: “Oh, come on, Targaryen. We said no sabotage.”

Daenerys turned toward him, offended. “Yes, and we shook on that. I didn’t do anything. Don't blame me because your author is unreliable.”

Jon’s mouth opened for what seemed like it would have been a rather skeptical reply when he received a sharp tap on the shoulder. His jaw fell, and hers sealed shut.

It seemed that Stark had managed to get Davos Seaworth out to the event, after all. Later, when she’d won, she would need to ask him how he’d pulled that off. 

(Though, in fairness, even he looked rather stunned by the whole thing.)

“Davos,” he said with that same, strange look on his face, “you made it.”

The two greeted each other momentarily before Davos began to head inside. She could see him making a beeline for Stannis.

“Ellaria,” she reluctantly began, “does seem unusually late.”

Jon cleared his throat awkwardly, and she looked closer at him. He was fidgeting; his cheeks were red. There was no other word for it: Jon looked guilty.

It hit her at once.

_That. Rat. Bastard._

“Oh my God,” she exclaimed. “You mangy little monster! You sabotaged me! What did you do? Call her to cancel?”

He had his hands up in surrender, talking to her as if he were talking to a wild animal. “Emailed her when you were getting lunch. But now look,” he said, “I only did it because I thought you were going to do the same to me.”

She babbled something angry at Jon about competition-treason and people from untrustworthy boroughs.  He scoffed at her argument; it lit her aflame.

“Oh, come on," he said. "I have witnessed enough Daenerys Targaryen takedowns to know when sabotage is coming.”

“Apparently not,” she snarled. “When I tell someone I’ll fight fair, I do it. And you realize I’m probably getting fired for this, don’t you? Ellaria told Yara Greyjoy that she was coming tonight. When she doesn’t show up, I’m sure Yara will call her.”

He rolled his eyes. “They’re not going to fire you for that. And even if they did, you’ll be fine. Your mother can get you another internship.”

“My mother didn’t get me _this_ internship, you idiot. She’s a fashion designer; she can’t just call in favors from magazines.”

His face fell a fraction of an inch.

“I, er… I didn’t realize that,” he said. All the mirth was gone now from his face.

Right now, she couldn’t stand to look at him. She felt like she was going to be sick.

“Why didn’t you do it, then?” he asked. “I thought you would; you love winning. Why didn’t you sabotage me if this job is so important to you?”

The look she gave him was withering.

“Guess I must have some undiagnosed brain injury, because I stupidly thought this fake friendship was real,” she spat. Without another word, she walked away from him, Elie Saab gown floating ethereally behind her.

Daenerys caught just one glimpse of his face as she left. He looked stricken.

* * *

Daenerys ultimately had been let go from the internship, fired by the boss of her boss's boss via email. She didn’t have the energy to argue with them, to explain the complicated bet that Jon and her had made. It probably wouldn't look much better than what they thought had happened. And bitter or not, Daenerys didn’t have the energy to take him down with her.

In the few days since, she had decided to refocus herself on other things: the sort of things that didn’t remind her of Jon Stark, his stupid hair, his stupid voice or her stupid brain, which had now been proven wrong about him twice.

Right — other things.

Daenerys hadn’t seen hide nor hair of her best friend in at least three days; it had been far longer since they’d properly spoken.  Margaery was wrapped up in a new relationship, disgustingly enough with Joffrey Baratheon.

She wasn’t even sure how that had happened, given Joffrey’s mother was the very woman Margaery had drunkenly spilled wine on at the Whitney gala. But that was a question for another time — one she didn’t particularly care to ask.

Daenerys loathed Joffrey on principle; their fathers had been as close to mortal enemies as one could get. And Joffrey hadn’t done much to recommend himself outside of that reputation, as far as she was concerned. Excessive partying. Gambling. An ego the size of the Empire State Building.

What her friend saw in him, she couldn’t say. And Margaery wasn’t exactly volunteering. 

It was frustrating. She’d let her best friend _move in_ with her, and she couldn’t so much as get a text back lately.

Her musings were interrupted by a gentle voice.

“Daenerys?” it called.

“I thought you’d left already,” she replied, sitting up as Missandei appeared in the doorway.

She smiled. “I was about to head out for the evening, but the doorman called up as I was grabbing my coat. I guess you have a visitor?”

Daenerys raised a brow, still despondent in bed.

“Who is it?” she asked. 

The woman shrugged gently. “I don’t know him, Miss Dany. But he’s quite insistent that he see you.”

Missandei didn’t need to say anything else. In her heart, Daenerys knew who it was.

She drifted down the stairs to her foyer slowly, an untied silk robe draped over her pajama shorts and tank. Brooklyn’s own Benedict Arnold wasn’t worth expending the effort to redress herself.

But when she finally reached the bottom of her spiral stairs, she was struck by the feeling that Stark looked _sad._

That, and the fact that he was carrying a suspiciously familiar pastel container.

“I came to apologize, and I’ve brought you a peace offering,” he said sheepishly as she approached. There was a box of Ladurée in his outstretched hand. She arched a perfect, shapely brow.

“I also came to tell you that I confessed to emailing Ellaria Sand from your account to cancel on her. They fired me, and uh, I think you’re probably going to get your job back. I hope, anyway.” His face was redder than the bottoms of her Louboutins.

It was probably a mistake to let bygones be bygones, given that Jon Stark was clearly untrustworthy, but he had confessed. And she was strangely touched that he had brought her macarons — her favorite sweets, even though she had never had them while with him.  Jon must have spent a significant amount of time searching through her social media accounts to pinpoint which treat appeared the most often.

But most importantly, Daenerys didn’t think she had enough emotional reserves left to remain angry at him. Not when there was still so much being used by her anger at Daario, her anger at Margaery, her anger at herself.

“If there aren’t any raspberry macarons in here, I’ll be rethinking this truce,” she said as she swiped the box from him.  Her heart was pounding. Daenerys ignored it.

Jon stared at her hopefully, that trademark dopey look of his somehow even more sad and dopey than normal. She rolled her eyes fiercely and pivoted, calling out behind her: “Come along, Stark. I suppose I’ll allow you a movie night.”

* * *

Viserys was an ass. She had thanked every deity she could think of for weeks after he decided to accept a position running the line's Europe division. Granted, he still managed to ruin nearly every holiday — but seeing him 10 days a year was a vast improvement over all of them.

She crossed her arms around her waist protectively, trying to soothe the nausea roiling in her stomach.

_‘No,’_ she thought emphatically. She didn’t do that anymore.

Breath by breath, second by second. If she had to take it like that to get through it, she would. Daenerys refused to be that girl again, but damn, was it hard to resist right now.

Her greatest shame, her ugliest secret. The searing pain of it being broadcast online with the same breathless glee that hookups and breakups were… some days she still couldn’t bear to think of it.  It would have been hard enough confessing to Margaery and her mother that Daenerys was bulimic, but the choice had been taken from her. Someone — Myranda, she was still convinced — had caught her on-camera during a purge and sent it in to Gossip Girl.

She was already embarrassed by it. Then suddenly, unbearably, the entire world knew her greatest source of shame. It was overwhelming.  Therapy had helped; and at this point, she hadn’t made herself sick in more than a year. She never would again, if she had it her way.

But some days were harder than others, and days when Viserys were around were the worst of all. Her brother was just cruel. He'd been born like that.

He never avoided an opportunity to criticize her. He’d even done it at the beginning of the night, telling her she’d gotten chubbier since they’d last seen one another.  Daenerys knew she needed to get out of the penthouse for the evening — to get away from him. Recovery was still a constant process for her, and she flatly refused to let Viserys be the one to derail her.

She wasn’t sure what made her do it — it was spring break, and most people were either on vacation or out catching up with friends who were home from their universities.  Daenerys should have been one of them; but right now, the very thought of performing for the crowd exhausted her. 

And lately, there was only one person who made her comfortable.  One person who made her feel like herself.

Without another word, she pulled out her cell phone, flipping through the contacts until she reached his name. In seconds, the camera loaded — the ringback dial like a klaxon in the night.

Too many rings; she supposed she should’ve known that her favorite Williamsburg weasel would have plans. But just as she was ready to concede, his face popped up onscreen.

He looked _delicious —_ hair damp from the shower, skin clear and clean. Her stomach flipped — a revolting reaction.

“Daenerys?” he called out. “What’s up?”

“Why am I not surprised that you're home instead of out at some bar, Stark?” she asked in greeting.

His eyes rolled. “Am I supposed to believe you’re FaceTiming me from the bathroom at Butter?”

A fair point. For a troglodyte, Jon Stark was occasionally savvy.

“I might have been considering popping in a film,” she said, keeping her voice as light as she could. Daenerys didn’t at all like the sudden spike of nerves in her body — a fear that he would say no.

He considered her quietly for a moment. Just when she was certain she could take it no longer, he spoke. 

“Nitehawk is doing a late-night showing of ‘Rosemary’s Baby’ tonight, if you’re willing to trek to Brooklyn,” he offered.

Trekking to Williamsburg at night. To see _Jon._ It felt far more intentional to make plans like this than their plausible deniability at museums and that one-or-five-time trip to Film Forum.

She still hadn’t responded, but he hadn’t prodded. A nice thing about him was that he always waited when she was inside her head like this. He seemed content to watch her face as she flitted from option to option.

Finally, she nodded.

It was only due to the lack of time that she remained in her current outfit. She could hear Viserys’s criticism on repeat in her mind as she rode over the bridge toward the Brooklyn skyline. She smoothed the waist of her dress one last time as she stepped out of her town car and toward the cinema. Her brother was an ass, but she had spent enough hours with her psychologist to push his words away. 

She would need to, anyway. Bantering with Jon Stark required more skill than she could muster when distracted.

Jon was out front, clad in jeans and a simple plaid shirt. Somehow, he managed to look effortless in the good way — even though Daenerys was quite certain he’d just been plain effortless. 

Two tickets were clutched in his hand, though, and she softened a bit. Her stomach settled, shoulders relaxed, jaw unclenched. It had been a good idea to come here, after all. 

“Hello, Stark,” she smiled as she walked toward him, and the smile was genuine. “Waiting for someone?”

“I am, actually,” he grinned back swiftly, his hand coming up to about chest-height. “About this tall, extremely mean. Have you seen her?”

“Hmm,” she murmured as she swiped a ticket from between his fingers. “Maybe. Was she incredibly well-dressed and upsettingly perfect?”

Together, they turned toward the theatre doors.

“Yeah,” he said, “that’s the one.”

***

She was drunk. 

Nitehawk served drinks during their showings, and they’d gone for another cocktail after “Rosemary’s Baby” ended. By then, Daenerys was utterly sloshed. Jon had offered to bring her back to his loft or cab with her to Manhattan, whichever she’d prefer.

Oddly, she wanted the loft.

He’d given her the strangest look when she said that, but Daenerys didn’t mind. Together, they stumbled up the staircase and toward his door.

It was just them; Ned had apparently taken Sansa upstate for the weekend.

Jon settled her onto the couch — her feet were tucked beneath her, and she could tell her brown curls were mussed. 

“Sit with me, Stark?” she slurred.

He gave her a small smile and dropped onto the couch beside her — she laid herself on his chest.

“You alright there, Dany?” he asked softly.

She looked up at him, serious. She wanted — she didn’t know _what_ she wanted, but it felt very important for him to know that she did care about their friendship. That he _did_ deserve to know things she wouldn’t tell just anyone.

“Daario called Yale,” she said suddenly. He looked confused by the abrupt change in topic. “His family… he’s much richer than the rest of us, you know. Connected. He got Yale to reject me so I wouldn’t leave New York.”

Jon’s face slowly worked through emotions. She could see all of them: confusion, surprise, distaste, fury.

“Fuck — he _what?”_ he asked, and his voice was cold.

“You asked me once,” Daenerys said simply, “why we broke up, and I wouldn’t tell you. I have a hard time with… with trusting people. So please be worth it.”

She laid back down before he could respond, arms tangled around him. Jon didn't say anything, just stroked her hair softly. It was the last thing she felt before she dozed off. 

When she came to, it had only been an hour. The clock read 4:30.

Jon was still there, holding her. She sat up a bit, the motion startling him awake as well. For a minute their eyes connected, and they just stared at one another. He brushed a curl out of her face.

“Hey,” she breathed quietly.

Daenerys leaned in a bit, eyes flitting down to his lips.

But then Jon took a shaky breath and stood up. He held out his hand.

“You’re drunk, Dany. Come on. You can take my bed — I’ll sleep out here,” he said.

Well, that was embarrassing.

* * *

Jon and her had returned to a tentative sense of normalcy since that night, largely achieved by them both pretending nothing had happened.

It had been two weeks since, and Daenerys was only now finding some measure of success in forgetting how awkward she’d felt in Jon’s bed, covered in his blankets, the smell of him surrounding her. Knowing what she had just planned to do, and knowing he’d been the one to stop it.

Thankfully, he hadn’t tried to bring it up. 

Her self-esteem wasn’t quite as fragile as it had once been, but no one enjoyed rejection. In the light of day, she wasn’t even sure what she’d been thinking. 

Jon’s type was slim, leggy girls with effortlessly interesting faces — Margaery. Ygritte. Nothing about Daenerys was effortless. Not her tailored clothing, nor her precisely curled hair, nor her trained posture.

Not that Jon was her type, either. He had a severe caffeine addiction, managed to look unshaven less than 20 minutes after taking a razor to his beard, and the thread count of his sheets was exceedingly subpar.

They were far better as friends. Obviously.

But it did sting, just a little bit, to know that he felt that way.

* * *

Daario came home two months ahead of schedule.

If he were to be believed, he'd decided to leave Beijing early for her.

Daenerys was certain that he would not have left if the deal was on precarious footing... but she supposed there was a chance he had chosen to leave early for her, naive as that may be. Daario had done something unforgivable, but she had never questioned that he cared about her.

He had arrived at her penthouse — sans peonies, this time — with a sweeping speech professing his love, apologizing for what he’d done, and offering to call Yale in the fall if she wanted to try and transfer next spring.

“I’m so sorry, Daenerys. I was an ass,” he said. Daario looked exhausted, like he hadn't slept since she’d last seen him. She didn’t know what to do with this version of her ex-boyfriend, so different from how he typically behaved.  Even still, she brushed off any talk of Yale. Under no circumstances did she plan to tell him that she’d already applied to transfer — that her application was under deliberation now.

“You were more than an ass,” she replied instead.

To her surprise, he nodded.

“Losing you… it’s been unbearable. Please let me prove to you that I can be better.”

And then he produced his coup de grâce, a gleaming Cartier ring and a plea to marry him. It was a stunning piece of jewelry, the physical embodiment of her dream ring. The sudden appearance and sweeping apology... It was all the types of grand gestures that normally delighted her. Except she didn’t feel delighted.

She pushed down the strange hollowness she felt at his proposal. Daario and her had been perfect together in her mind; she had always believed they were meant to be. She had dreamed of this exact moment before. 

But Daenerys didn’t feel that way right now.

All she felt was an overwhelming feeling of dissatisfaction.

“I’m not ready to take you back,” she finally said. "What you did can't be fixed with a ring."

Daario's face fell. 

And then Jon’s swam in her mind. _‘You’re drunk, Dany,’_ it said, as he pulled away from her.

She was alone — maybe she was being hasty.

“But,” she continued, “I’ll try to forgive you.”

His face split into a smile. “I’ll make it up to you, Daenerys,” he said. “Whatever it takes.”

"Just to be clear," she said, "this isn't a yes. We're not back together."

"I'm just glad you're willing to think about it," he said.  He pulled her into a hug, and her stomach rolled. She felt unsettled, like her soul was trying to escape her body. When Daario released her, he finally noticed the vaguely ill look on her face.

“You seem off a bit,” he said. “Is something wrong?”

She smiled as brightly as she could manage, sure that she had failed — more sure that she couldn’t tell him that him touching her made her feel sick.

“Nothing,” she said. “I’m just tired. I was up early this morning.”

He nodded at her explanation and pivoted the conversation back to them.  Daenerys felt rather bereft about it — it was an odd feeling. She’d gotten away with her lie and felt like she’d been short-changed for it. Jon, she was certain, would never have believed that. He would have noticed she was upset; he would have pushed her for answers.

She cut the thought off abruptly, appalled with herself. That line of thinking was not productive, and neither was the road it would take her down.

Jon said no to her. She would respect it.

* * *

Joffrey and Margaery were finished. Daenerys wasn’t sure if she had ever been so relieved by news she had to pretend upset her. 

She had done the obligatory best-friend duty of comforting her friend for several days. They’d eaten pints of ice cream and watched sad films, ranting about untrustworthy, immature men.

Eventually, when Margaery seemed comforted enough to deem a public jaunt acceptable, Daenerys suggested a shopping trip. And that’s when she brought up Daario.

“He apologized about Yale... I mean, he literally proposed to me, and I… I just didn’t know what to say.” Time hadn’t helped her quell her hesitation in recounting the tale, and Margaery’s eternal optimism didn’t either.

“D!” she exclaimed. “That’s fantastic! I’m so glad he knows now that what he did was horrible.”

Daenerys stared at her, perturbed, as they rifled through a rack of skirts.

“I’m not just going to forgive him though, M,” she said. “I can’t.”

“I mean, you don’t have to forgive him at all, D. But you two have been through so much together. I thought you’d want to hear that he's trying to change,” her friend replied.

Daenerys stumbled over her words. “I… yeah, I suppose.”

Margaery looked toward her, face fresh and devastatingly pretty as ever. Daenerys felt her heart fold in on itself at her friend’s next words.

“I’ve been thinking too, by the way. I know it's too soon right now, but after some time passes, I might ask Jon on a date.”

She blinked, confused. “Jon who?”

“Jon Stark,” Margaery beamed. “I ran into him a week or two ago — completely out of the blue — and I just got thinking about it over the last few days. You know he always used to make it clear at Constance that he was interested, but I was never really single. And I really think I want to try dating a good guy for a change, you know? You guys go to NYU together, don’t you? Do you see him often?”

“Well, that would certainly be a change,” she mustered, swallowing hard. Daenerys wondered if her face looked as sick as she felt. “I see him occasionally.”

Margaery. Jon had always liked Margaery. _Everyone_ liked Margaery.

And he hadn’t told her that he’d run into her best friend last time they spoke.

Daenerys made her excuses rapidly — “But listen, M. If we’re at the part of the conversation where we sing Jon Stark’s praises, then I’m going to try things on!” — and hurried forward, grabbing a genuinely appalling gown she would never consider purchasing. She could hear Margaery's surprised, "But D!" as she all-but fled.

She practically let herself into the dressing room, so swift that the sales clerk floundered. The moment she was ensconced inside the room, she took a deep breath.

This wasn’t a big deal. This didn’t matter _at all._ Daenerys had no idea why she had reacted so strongly to the concept. Daario wanted to get back together, wanted to _marry_ her; and in any case, it’s not like she was interested in Jon Stark.

She tried chanting those sentences in her mind, over and over again.

It was no use.

The only thing her mind was focusing on was the absolute certainty with which she knew that she hated the idea of Jon and Margaery together more than she could ever remember hating anything.

She pulled out her phone and fired off a rapid email to her therapist. Between Daario's ring and Margaery's crush, Daenerys was quite certain that she could use an emergency session.

* * *

Daenerys had so far managed to put off Margaery's increasing requests to set up a group hangout for the three of them. She shuddered to think how much more relentless the girl would be had she actually realized how often Jon and Daenerys saw one another.

Keeping their friendship a secret had been a defense mechanism in the beginning. Now, it felt like a necessity. Daario had been shockingly patient with her so far, not pressing for an answer at all. But the weight of that combined with her not-as-baffling-as-she'd-prefer feelings about a Jon/Margaery setup had her on a wire.

She had convinced Jon to meet her on Madison Ave., hoping some fresh air and his soothing presence would clear her head.

It was a moment of weakness — that was all. She’d been having them more often lately, a side effect of her brother’s presence that was passing slowly.

“Do I look fat in this, Stark?” she asked quickly, peering at her reflection in the storefront windows.

“Stop it, Daenerys,” he scowled. “Fishing for compliments is beneath you.”

But Jon must’ve turned. He must have seen the look on her face, because the moment he caught her eyes, he stopped walking and grabbed her arm, almost yanking her around to face him.

“Was that a serious question?” he asked.

She flushed.  “It’s fine, Stark, I just caught sight of myself in the window. It must’ve been a warped image,” she insisted.

Smile bright. Eye contact. The type of thing that worked with everyone but Jon.

“Why don’t you try that again, but with feeling?” he said drily.

“I don’t think you need to stretch that scholarly brain of yours too far to recall that I have previously had difficulties,” she said tightly — perhaps the closest she’d come to discussing it with anyone who wasn’t Margaery, her therapist, or (against her will) her mother. “But it’s not a problem anymore. Asking is just a reflex.”

Jon plainly didn’t believe her; but to her immense relief, he let the issue drop.

“Alright,” he said slowly, “but for what it’s worth, you look beautiful. You always do.”

And that was a problem, because this time, even she couldn’t pretend the thumping in her heart had to do with anything but the man standing in front of her.

A man who was most certainly _not_ the one who had attempted to propose to her the other day. A man her best friend was planning to ask on a date. The best friend, might she add, who said man had salivated after for half a decade now.

She managed a terse, small nod. When she finally choked out a ‘thank you,’ her voice nearly broke.

The look on his face tightened for a fraction of a second, and then he ran his hand through his curls, sighing. 

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go get a drink.”

Daenerys blanched.

Drinking with Jon Stark sounded like a terrible idea, given the treasonous thoughts she’d had just a moment earlier. But Jon knew her well by now — knew how to needle her, how to go to bat with her — and just started walking, waving a hand for her to follow.

“Keep up, Targaryen. Unless you’re afraid you’ll over-drink again like you did at Sam Tarly’s.”

Even knowing that he was about to bait her didn’t soften the reflexive response to his words.

“I _only_ over-drank because some classless little troll and her mop-headed ponce of a friend were calling me a _monster…”_

“Mhmm,” he said, “and what’s your excuse for after Nitehawk?”

Her diatribe lasted the duration of their walk. Jon had wisely chosen a hole-in-the-wall establishment. Not the type of place she’d normally be caught dead inside of, but that meant it wasn’t likely they’d run into any of Gossip Girl’s spies.

She chose a small corner table, tucked away. The bar wasn’t full, but there was enough hum from others’ conversations to make speaking comfortable.

“I’ll buy first round,” he offered, “since I bullied you into coming here.”

“Hmm,” she said lightly, “and here I thought it was because Trystane’s manners had finally started to rub off on you.”

He grinned, the first real one she’d seen from him since before she’d asked that stupid question.

“Careful what you wish for, Targaryen,” he said. “I don’t know if you could withstand my charm if I had Martell’s manners.”

His voice was roguish. Her heart sped up a bit.

“Disagree,” she answered. “Trystane’s high a little too often for my taste. If you're going to try and charm me by mimicking our high school classmates, I recommend you pick one whose best class wasn't gym.”

"You are ruthless," he said, wincing. "An absolute dictator."

She preened at his words. "Not bad, Stark. I actually like that one."

His smile softened, and Daenerys felt her heart pound.  But Jon seemed entirely unconcerned with the contents of her racing brain, instead latching on to a new, highly unsuitable thread of conversation.

“If you don’t like how often Martell gets high, how the hell did you manage to date Naharis for so long?”

Daario did not feel like a safe area of discussion.

“Well,” she bantered back drily, “we did break up several times.”

But Jon was so damn stubborn when his mind locked on a subject. He looked at her mulishly, frustrated. 

“And also got back together. Margaery told me he proposed to you," he said. "What I don’t understand is why your immediate response wouldn't be to throw the ring at him.”

For a whole host of reasons (that ran the gamut from humiliation to nausea), Daenerys didn’t want to have this discussion. Not with anyone, but certainly not with Jon. And she _definitely_ didn't want additional details as to when Jon and Margaery began having casual conversations.

“That’s because you’re from Brooklyn,” she deflected.

He inclined his head toward her, a withering look on his face. It sobered her attempts at once. She hated that, hated whatever stupid power Jon had that made her want to trust him with the worst of her.

“He loves me. I know he does. I owe it to him to at least see if I can forgive him,” she stalled. Poorly.

“Tell me the truth, Dany,” he muttered. “You always — I never want to push you, but please. Just tell me the truth for once.”

The truth. It felt like a lot for him to ask, but it wasn’t. Not really. Of all the people she’d ever known, Jon was probably the least likely to use it against her. She expelled a breath — hard — and brushed a curl behind her ear, staring somewhere over his shoulder. Daenerys’s face was as blank as she could make it; her voice was as calm and even as she could force it.

“I’ve always dreamed of being _someone._ Someone important. But I’m not, not on my own. Without him, I'm just Daenerys. I'm not special. I'm nothing.” 

Her voice was small. She had made it all these years without saying it out loud, but here was Jon Stark. She couldn’t decide if it was more or less terrifying that he should be the one to hear it.

When she finally chanced meeting Jon’s gaze, his eyes were fierce. He shook his head hard.

“You’re wrong,” he said. “You have never been nothing.”

* * *

_Hey, Upper East Siders — Gossip Girl here._

_It seems I owe you an apology. You turn to me for all of the scandalous secrets Manhattan’s elite have to offer; but I’ve been scooped... and in long-form! Turns out Brooklyn’s very own J is publishing his very own ‘Vanity Fair.’ Who knows what dirty secrets J has uncovered now that he's been spending so much time above 63rd St.?_

Jon Stark had written a book, and she was in it. They were all in it.

“You should all know,” he’d said when he gathered them together to explain the news that Gossip Girl had so unceremoniously broken, “that I did not plan to publish this book. Ever.”

Ygritte had gone behind his back and given the completed novel to an editor. If Jon were to be believed, he’d been so furious that he had told her to never contact him again.

It was no real loss in Dany’s opinion. Ygritte’s predilection for products made with hemp was bad enough, but her self-righteous meddling somehow managed to be even more off-putting.

Truly, Daenerys couldn’t believe they’d ever dated; it was baffling to her how someone with Jon’s admirable cinematic palate could have such undiscerning taste in women.

But she was getting side-tracked — what was done was done. The publishing house loved his book; they were insistent on putting the novel out. Limited grammatical edits only.

Everyone else had congratulated him, but Daenerys had to fight hard not to roll her eyes. Truly, only he could _accidentally_ publish a loosely veiled tell-all on the Upper East Side.

Besides, his behavior was ruining any joy she could derive from the exodus of Ygritte from her life. He had been behaving strangely with her that entire day — literally, from the moment she arrived — and for each one since then. He’d seemed almost reluctant to give her a copy, wincing as he let go of the one he’d handed her. 

Daenerys had tried not to analyze it too thoroughly, but the truth seemed rather obvious to her. Novels were not written overnight, and Jon had probably completed a significant portion of this book before they became friends. She was sure he’d portrayed her terribly.

She eyed her copy again, the spine still fresh and flat. Daenerys had carried the book home as if it were something precious and delicate. But then she hadn’t been able to open it. More than a day later, and there wasn’t a single dogeared page edge.

Margaery had just returned from acquiring her own copy from Jon when she walked into Daenerys's room, picking up the copy that she had dropped onto the end of her bed before burying her face in her Frette pillowcase.

“How badly did he write you?” she laughed.

Daenerys groaned. “I haven’t read it yet,” she admitted. “I’m not sure my self-esteem needs to see just how terribly I come off.”

The blonde’s eyes glittered. “Oh come on, Dany. Every story needs a villain.”

She rolled onto her stomach, facing her oldest friend. “Easy for you to say,” she mumbled, “I’m sure the protagonist will turn out to be some cheery blonde bombshell named Mara.”

Margaery preened at that, and Daenerys felt a strange surge of irritation — the type of feeling she normally had for everyone _but_ her closest friend.

Jon Stark was pretentious and owned more plaid shirts than any man should, but he was smart. And funny. And when he took that stupid pout off his face, he was even attractive.  The man liked F. Scott Fitzgerald novels and could speak with eloquence on the latest Henri Matisse exhibition. Despite spending a truly unforgivable amount of time pondering it, Daenerys couldn’t begin to imagine what he and Margaery would even talk about.

Her lips pressed tight against each other. 

No, she definitely had no interest in reading this book.

* * *

Margaery was significantly less delighted the next morning.

“Can you believe what he wrote about me, D?!” she half-whined, half-shouted as she stomped into her room just after 8:00 a.m. “It’s ridiculous.”

Daenerys rolled over and arched her brow, curious in spite of herself. What could Jon have written about _Margaery,_ of all people?

“I told you — I have no plans to read Stark’s 350-page manifesto against Manhattanites,” she said, keeping her tone even. But for the first time, she thought she might want to. She continued: “But if you’ve finished it, mind telling me how right I was about my own portrayal?”

“I haven’t read the entire thing yet,” Margaery admitted, a light flush in her cheeks. “I skimmed to get to the parts he wrote about me. But D, you wouldn’t believe it — he makes me sound so vapid!”

Margaery looked some strange combination of distressed and furious; the overall impact was unsettling. Outwardly, at least, Daenerys did the right things. The type of things a best friend would do. She consoled her friend, critiqued Jon and tried to retcon some of his harsher commentary. 

_(Of course she didn’t think it was rude for Margaery to reschedule plans for a second time in order to make it to a fashion week event.)_

But inside, she was slightly less obliging. Daenerys couldn’t even remember the last time someone had waxed less than poetic about her closest friend. Normally, the only person to shoulder the brunt of any frustration with her was Dany herself.

She tried not to be too pleased by it, though. If he had written beautiful, charming Margaery — the rose of everyone’s eye — as vain and selfish, then what must he think of the rest of them? Jon had been infatuated with her best friend for as long as she could remember. Their fledgling friendship couldn’t possibly inoculate her from his scrutiny if his own feelings for Margaery didn’t protect her.

***

He was mad at her.

Jon wouldn’t say it — not directly, anyway — that’s just how he was. But she could tell he was mad at her. The periodic texts he usually sent with links to articles and his commentary on them had slowly dried up. His sentences had become stunted. Her most recent text had gone unanswered.

She assumed it was due to her lack of comment on his book; but honestly, she was quite sure she was doing their friendship a favor by staying away from it. She had even tried opening it, flicking through until she caught sight of what must've been Margaery's character. She hadn't been joking; it wasn't a generous portrayal.

But ignoring her defeated the entire purpose of this exercise. And if she had learned anything about Jon in all the time they'd spent together, it was that it was easiest to have it out with him in person.

That's how she ended up at the loft, knocking on the door. She could hear his rustling on the other side. Finally, his voice rang out: "Who is it?"

"It's Daenerys, and if I get murdered on your doorstep, I'm going to haunt you, so open up!" she called back.

There was a pause, during which she could almost hear him weighing the odds that she would depart any time soon if he left her out there. Finally, he seemed to determine that she wouldn't. The door opened.

"What do you want, Dany?" he asked gruffly. She pushed passed him into the apartment.

"I want an explanation for why you've been so weird to me lately. You could barely look at me when you announced your book to all of us. Now I can barely get a text back from you. When I do, it's like pulling teeth!" She exclaimed.

He looked at her strangely, face red. "Generally, when you write an entire book and receive no response to its contents, it's hard to know what to say."

"Perhaps you haven't received a response because I haven't read it yet," she said. Her voice was tight, and she was tense. Every muscle in her body seemed to have seized at once. She felt hollow; she wasn’t used to being cold with Jon anymore, and she found she didn’t really like it.

"You haven't read _any_ of it?" he asked.Jon was working himself up now; he ran a hand through his hair.

“I have no desire to read hundreds of pages worth of how dreadful you think I can be,” she snarled. “I may not be a published author, but I’m sure my imagination is more than capable enough of guessing what sort of villainy you've put to paper for me.”

Some of the anger seeped from Jon’s face, and the twit had the nerve to look confused. “How dreadful I…? Are you kidding?” he asked.

Daenerys didn’t know why she had come here. She didn't want to deal with any of this — not his petulance, nor his haircut, nor his stupid Brooklyn loft. And she _certainly_ didn’t need to deal with the miserable lump in her throat that strangled her whenever she thought about printed, incontrovertible proof of how much derision Jon once held for her. 

She hadn't planned to say that last part aloud, to give a voice to that secret fear.

"Honestly, Dany, of every fight I pictured us having about my book, this has to be the _last..."_ he sounded exasperated. 

Fights. He'd pictured them having fights about what he wrote. He had envisioned multiple options for what would upset her. 

"You know what?" she said. "Forget it. I shouldn't have come here. This was a mistake."

She turned to leave, stomping by him. Jon reached for her arm, grasping her hand as she passed him. 

"Dany, please," he said, eyes wild. "It's not what you think it is."

She pulled her hand away, swallowing hard. And then she turned to leave. 

Daenerys curled herself into the backseat of her town car, feeling smaller than she had in a long time. She waited until they were crossing the bridge to pull out her compact, cleaning the smudged eyeliner and smoothing the clumped mascara.

The skin beneath her eyes was swollen. Her cheeks were red. She hadn't even realized that she'd been crying.  She re-powdered her face, the repetition soothing. She set it one last time as they pulled up outside her building, satisfied that no one (save possibly Missandei) would be able to tell she had ever cried at all.

“Margaery?” she called out as she stepped inside the penthouse. "Are you here?"

Her apartment was eerily silent; her mother must have been out. Missandei was nowhere to be seen. Daenerys made her way upstairs toward her room, calling for her friend again.

"Margaery?"

The blonde opened her room's door, peering out at her.  "Hey, D," she said. But her eyes were hard. Her voice was frozen solid.  “How's Jon doing?” 

Daenerys paused in the entryway, brow arching.  “What?”

“You can drop the act, D. I read the rest of his book.” Margaery’s arms were crossed.

“Okay,” she replied blithely. “I haven’t, so I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Margaery snorted derisively. 

“Please, D, don’t be ridiculous. You’ve been lying to me for — actually, I don’t even know how long you’ve been lying to me for. And what about Daario? Have you been seeing Jon behind his back, too?”

Daenerys's mind filled with static.  "What on earth are you talking about, M? I'm not dating Jon Stark. And, by the way, I'm not dating Daario, either, so I couldn't exactly be seeing anyone behind his back."

“Gossip Girl saw you,” Margaery said firmly. As if that meant anything.

Daenerys pulled her phone from the handbag still resting in the crook of her elbow.

_Spotted: D arriving at J’s place. Sorry M! Looks like your best friend has been keeping secrets from you._

Of course, there was a fucking photo accompanying the blast. It was dark, but it was unquestionably her walking into his building. Gossip Girl seemed to have a policy about only ruining her life when she had photographic evidence.

She had been keeping her friendship with Jon secret, but she wasn't dating him. She supposed she had been lying, but it wasn't about what Margaery seemed to think.

"Margaery, it's not —" she began, but the girl cut her off.

"Save it, Daenerys. I can't listen to you lie to my face any more right now. God, I'm so stupid. I've been sitting here trying to understand why Jon rejected me, what I did wrong... and you've just been sitting here listening to it and knowing all along."

“I… what? M, no I haven't!” she said, confusion growing, but the girl just slammed her door shut. She heard the lock click behind her.

When had Margaery actually asked Jon out?

And why hadn’t she known that he said no?

And what in the fucking hell was in that book?

* * *

A lot, as it turned out.

Jon had written… her. Caring, but terrified. Beautiful, but troubled. Loyal, but spiteful. Blunt, but sneaky. Lovable, but destructive. He’d written all of it, but also none of it. The story wasn’t derived from anything that had actually happened, which she supposed she should feel better about. But it was still thoroughly _them._ Their japes — their humor.

It had taken her an entire day to read through the book; she was periodically overwhelmed by it. And truly, it  was almost bizarre to recognize herself portrayed so honestly. 

At the very least, however, she now understood Margaery’s fury. Because despite Daenerys’s record-breaking capacity for self-loathing, there was no way she could deny the obvious truth that the man who had written this book was in love with her. And that was something they really needed to talk about.

She had been spending far too much time in Brooklyn, as of late. Daenerys supposed, in retrospect, that it should have been obvious that Gossip Girl would have spies near Jon's loft just after news of his Upper East Side tell-all hit the internet.

Within seconds of her arrival, she was reminded again just how well Jon knew her, for he seemed ready to fight from the moment he opened the door.

“If you’re here to tell me what an ass I am again, then just stop,” he said, before she could speak. “For fuck’s sake, Daenerys, there isn’t _one_ bad word about you in the entire thing.” He seemed to have thought about this: what the fastest way was to get that fact across to her.

She brushed by him and into the loft, scowling.  “We’ve been friends far too long for you to think I’ll let you argue with me while I stand in a hallway, Stark.” Daenerys folded her arms. “Besides, I’m not here to tell you you’re an ass.”

And now it was his turn to look skeptical. 

"I read your book," she said. Jon's eyes widened, and he took a tiny step back. 

"Oh," he said simply.

"Indeed," she replied.

They stared at one another for a moment silently, at an impasse.

He finally broke the silence. "Well... what did you think?"

She took a few more steps into the loft, sitting on the sofa with her hands beneath her knees. "I liked your main character," she said, "a lot more than the woman she's based on."

He came to sit beside her. "I don't," he said. "I don't think she's half the woman that the inspiration for her is."

"I'm sorry that I yelled at you," she said quietly. "I thought... I assumed you must have started writing it when we were still in high school. I thought it would be like the party all over again."

"I did start writing it in high school," he said. "I had three chapters written before you pulled me into that alley to scheme about Myranda. I deleted all three of them after that and restarted. They didn't fit."

"Why don't I think I was the hero in the first draft?" she said with a small grin. Anything to break the tension; his words were far too weighty.

He smiled shyly. "Well... you can't prove it."

"Margaery is furious with me," she said, grin slipping away. "She thinks I've been lying to her... which I suppose I have been. Although _you_ failed to mention to me that she asked you out."

He grimaced. "I've heard it's bad form to go out with the best friend of the girl you're interested in. She didn't take it very well. I, uh... I don't know if she's been turned down before."

"She hasn't been," Daenerys said simply. And then, after a pause: "Why me?"

He stared at her for what might've been a minute but felt like a hundred of them.

"I don't know a single person who cares as much about anything as you do about everything," he finally said. "You're beautiful. You're brilliant. Why _not_ you?"

She exhaled heavily as she grabbed his hand. Her heart was pounding in her ears.

“I’ll tell you as many times as you need, Dany,” he murmured.

“Margaery was so mad at me," she whispered. "She's my best friend. What if I lose her?” She could feel that her cheeks were tearstained — she knew her skin was blotchy and red.

But Jon met her gaze, eyes blazing. His were crystalline. “You’ll still have me.”

He was so close to her now, and he was still _Jon,_ but better now, so much better, because he wasn’t hiding from her. And somehow, impossibly, she thought that she might not need to hide either whenever she was with him. He lifted one hand to her cheek, thumb brushing away some of the saltwater that lingered on her skin.

“Dany, I—” he trailed off, looking at her helplessly.

They had been here before, but this time Jon leaned in.

“Wait,” she muttered in the last breath before their lips could meet.

He looked miserable as he pulled back. “Truly?”

She shook her head quickly, stumbling over her words as she stood.

“I haven’t… I still need to... Daario,” she finally managed. Daenerys hadn't figured out how to verbalize the thoughts bubbling through her brain, but Jon seemed to divine his own meaning from them.

There was the smallest flash of pain in them before they hardened, and he seemed to physically close himself off.

“Alright then,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

"It's not like that," she said. "I just... I need to talk to him."

But Jon pulled himself off the sofa. Sighing, she grabbed her things.

_ Men. _

Later, when everything was handled, she would yell at him for that.

* * *

Her poor driver would really need an excellent bonus for all the back-and-forth he'd put up with over the last few days.

That random thought cut across her musings. It felt wrong to kiss Jon with Daario still hanging in the wings. Margaery's anger at her had been partly fair, partly not, but she had been right about Daario.

Ex-boyfriend or not, he had proposed to her. A proposal she hadn't responded to yet. She needed to do that before anything else.

She texted Daario from the car, asking if it were okay to stop by. He replied that he was busy working on a business proposal, but she pressed harder.

_**Daenerys:**  
_ _Need to talk to you now. It’s important. Won’t take long._

_**Daario:**  
_ _Fine._

She walked through the lobby of the Empire Hotel, through to the penthouse elevator. When the doors re-opened, he was sitting on the couch, a glass of scotch poured and next to the bottle.

"Well?" he asked. She assumed he must also be mad about the Gossip Girl blast. But he wouldn't say it first; he would make her bring it up. He would make her be on the defensive from the start.  Daario was always like this — always so cold. It was the type of thing that never used to matter to her.

She wasn’t sure when it started to, but it sure as hell did now.

“I came here to tell you something,” she said suddenly. “That I can't marry you. That this relationship is over.” Quick, like tearing a Band-Aid away.

And Daenerys was surprised to find that she didn’t feel anything but relief now that the words were finally out of her mouth.

Daario’s face paled for a moment before his gaze narrowed.  "Because of Jon fucking Stark?"

"No," she said. And she meant it. "Because I don't trust you anymore. Because I won't ever trust you again. I should have told you that when you proposed to me, but I'm telling you now. I'm sorry."

“Enough of this, Daenerys. You’ve been raking me over the coals since I got home. Why don’t you just tell me what you want me to do?”

“I don’t want anything,” she said evenly. “This isn’t a game, Daario.”

“It’s you, Daenerys. It’s always a game.”

And if she hadn’t already been so set in her decision, she was sure that would’ve been the thing to do it.

Once upon a time, he would have been right. It _would_ have been a game. But she wasn’t that girl from Constance Billard anymore, and she hadn’t been for a long time.

“It’s not, actually. But I’ve said what I came to say. I thought I owed you enough to say it to your face. Anyway… good night.”

She moved to leave, not pausing until she heard him call out to her.

“You can’t,” he said, and his voice had hardened. “We’re meant to be together, Daenerys. Without each other, we’re nothing.”

“I used to think that,” she said, turning to face him. His face was colder than his words. “But you’re wrong. I am something on my own. I always have been.”

And this time, when she left, it felt like a beginning.

* * *

It took both too much time and none at all to make it back to Brooklyn.

"Last time," she said to her driver apologetically as they made their way back into the other borough.

So much had led up to this moment, but now she moved as if on autopilot. She was Audrey in “Sabrina,” Ingrid in “Casablanca.” The script was written.

By the time she made it to his door, all the anxiety had left her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so peaceful.

He hadn’t locked it, and she turned the knob slowly, knocking gently as she pushed it open.

Jon was sitting at his kitchen counter, head in hands. An empty glass of whiskey beside him.

He glanced toward her and then stiffened, turning his body to face hers.

“What are you doing here, Daenerys?” he asked. Jon sounded tired — looked miserable.

“I came to tell you something,” she said softly.

“That you’re staying with Daario?” His voice was wry. “Because I could have guessed that.”

She shook her head the slightest bit. “That’s not why I’m here.” She gave him a soft smile, and his eyes narrowed.

It was fascinating to watch him. Jon was so very bad at masking his expressions. She could see as his emotions rolled through the gamut: confusion, surprise, suspicion, a dreadful hope. He stood shakily, took a few small steps in her direction and paused. A human man wary to approach a dragon.

“You’re flying away from Manhattan, never to return, and spending your life on a private island away from all men?” he asked slowly.

A girlish giggle fell from her lips. “No.”

He just stood there, staring at her. His mind was always racing, and it was at work now in front of her. It was time she put it to rest.

“I told Daario it was over,” she said. “I think it has been for a long time.”

“Why?” Jon asked hoarsely.

“You know why,” she said softly. “You wrote an entire book about it.”

A sharp intake of breath was the only indication he had heard her.

She pressed: “So, Jon… are you gonna invite me in?”

“You just said my name,” he replied stupidly. But it was working: he was smiling now. Slowly at first, and then faster, until his face was blinding, more gorgeous in his delight than she’d ever seen him.

Some undignified sound — a bizarre cross between a breath and a giggle — escaped her lips. 

“Jon?” she repeated. He just nodded, stepping closer to her.

“You just said it again.”

And then she was in his arms, and they were kissing. She was murmuring his name into his lips, over and over again — as many times as he wanted to hear it — as he pressed her body into the door.

_This. This. This._

This was right.

This was how it was supposed to feel.

She threaded one hand into his curls as he slanted his soft lips over hers; the material of his shirt was soft inside her other fist.

Jon backed her into the doorway, mouth ravenous against her neck, her jawline… anything he could reach. And then he claimed her lips again, tongue plunging between them.

Everything felt heightened.

Jon’s hands roamed all over her body, like he couldn’t touch enough of her. There was no space left between them, and yet, he still didn’t seem close enough.

She turned them, taking his hand in hers and stepping backward toward the bedroom.

“Come on,” she whispered.

When he finally slid inside her, she saw stars.

* * *

For the first week, Margaery avoided her.

On Day 8, when Daenerys got home, the blonde was sitting on her bed with a box of macarons.

"I planned to stay mad at you longer," Margaery said. _"But_ I'm dying to hear how all this happened, so truce?"

Daenerys broke into a grin, dropping her bag where she stood and bounding onto the bed to wrap her arms around her best friend.

* * *

Jon had convinced her to meet him at the Met steps, bribing her with presents and the promise of a Central Park stroll. She should've known better than to trust it. A gift-based bribe from Jon could only mean he was cooking up a scheme of his own.

She took the gift bag from him and pulled it open, the tissue falling to the ground beside them.

It was a sweatshirt. An oversized sweatshirt. He’d bought her a shapeless, oversized bundle of cloth.

“I’m more accustomed to diamonds,” she joked as she pulled it out of the bag. When it unfurled, she stopped smiling.

There was an envelope taped to it. Beneath the envelope, embossed in thick, collegiate letters: _Yale._

She looked up at him, stunned.

“I bribed your doorman to divert the letter when it arrived. I figured if you got ahold of it, you’d throw it away in fear.”

Daenerys flushed — she was half-ready to do that _now._

“What if I didn’t get in?” she asked as she pulled the envelope off the sweatshirt.

Jon curled a hand around her jaw, tilting her face up. His eyes were blazing.

“They’d be insane to reject you.”

Her eyes were watering now, the emotions overwhelming. 

“What if I did get in?” came out in a whisper so faint Jon must’ve needed to read her lips.

“I’ll have a lot of time to write on the Metro North, I guess,” he said with a small smile. “My agent will like that.”

She kissed him then, this brilliant man.

“I love you, Jon,” she said. Plainly. Openly.

“And I love you,” he replied. “Now hurry up, and open that envelope.”

* * *

_Well, well, well, Upper East Siders,_

_It looks like I’ve been scooped again. First, J writes a book without my knowledge, and now he’s snuck an entire relationship under my radar. J and D — yes, that D — were spotted kissing on the Met steps today, just before D put on a Yale sweatshirt. Has Queen D finally snagged herself a king _ _and_ _a castle? I know I want to find out more; and as soon as I know, you’ll know too._

_You know you love me._

_XOXO,_

_Gossip Girl._

**Author's Note:**

> XOXO :)


End file.
